


Man of Magic

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is an extraordinary young man trying to pretend he's ordinary. His plan seems to be succeeding until journalist Arthur Pendragon starts digging into the secrets revolving around his identity. An enemy from his father's past turning up doesn't help Merlin keep his head down either. Written for reel_merlin take 6 for the prompt 'Man of Steel'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> This was so kindly beta'd by blissbubbles.

Balinor holds the baby in his arms and he wiggles blindly, eyes still glued closed. He's shaking his tiny fists at him, the fingers curled inwards, miniature versions of his own, yet perfectly proportioned. The baby's hands herald his overall size. He's so small. 

He actually feels so delicate in his rough calloused hands, Balinor is afraid he'll hurt him. If the baby kicks or shifts Balinor could drop him. As unused as Balinor is to having a newborn in his arms, that scenario is not so unthinkable. To better secure him, Balinor moves him up across his chest and the baby makes nary a sound. 

“He already trusts his father,” Hunith says, sitting up. Her hair's plastered to her forehead, which, in turn, is shiny with sweat, but despite all that she looks as beautiful and fierce as the day he first met her. “You can tell.”

Balinor wants to laugh but can't quite. Holding his baby boy makes him feel both small in the eyes of the universe and omnipotent. The sight of this baby, his son, is almost enough to convince him that hope is still possible if the right set of circumstances sets in. Perhaps it's a futile hope, but he pauses, recognises this as a moment for joy. “He ought not trust anyone.”

Hunith extends a hand towards him, summoning him to her bedside. “I wouldn't have him grow up without hope.”

Balinor moves towards her, the baby held against his chest. “What hope though?”

“I don't know,” Hunith says, her eyes skittering over their lodgings. Their quarters have turned into a bunker, the view of Drakonia they once were able to enjoy obscured by walls of iron reinforced with Dragon's breath, as tough as the scales of the real thing. “Maybe, maybe there is still some.”

“Hunith,” Balinor says, sitting on his wife's bed even though there is no time for discussion. “We have talked about this.”

“I know,” she tells him, cupping their baby boy's head with her hand, patting down the wispy tufts of hair that stick to his skull. “But perhaps...”

“There's no future for us,” Balinor forces himself to say. “There's no future for him.”

“Maybe the elders will change their minds?”

“The elders have exploited the dragons till there are no more left,” says Balinor, who can still feel the severance deep in his bones. “Nothing will come of them.”

“Perhaps, if you talk to them,” says Hunith, in a tone designed to persuade, “they'll understand.”

Balinor has thought about that, long and hard, but he has no more faith in their rulers, no more hope for a better age. “Why don't we name the baby?” he says instead, not wanting to voice his hopelessness.

“I was thinking,” Hunith says, smiling softly at their child, “that Ambrosius is a nice name.”

“Ambrosius be it, then,” says Balinor, reaching out towards the baby, until it grabs his finger as though it's a life-line. “I hoped I could have had more time with you, son,” he adds, talking directly to the baby. For a moment Ambrose seems to react; his eyes most certainly open, shining the same blue as Hunith's, but then Balinor realises that Ambrose is just sleepily taking the world in, blinking at it with no understanding. Balinor feels the pull of sadness tug at his heart. This boy has no chance. Unless... “I'll make one last appeal to The High Council.”

“They'll listen to you,” says Hunith, with fire in her voice. It's the fire of hope. “You come from one of the oldest Dragonlord families, they'll surely understand your deep connection to the creatures.”

“Because we know they've so far respected the link between dragonlords and dragons,” Balinor scoffs, sarcasm coming facilely off his tongue.

“Balinor—”

“They haven't and you know it,” Balinor says, standing so he can pace as fretfully as he wishes. “They've killed them all.”

“But Kilgharrah,” Hunith puts in, “surely Kilgharrah counts for something.”

Balinor nods his head. “Kilgharrah is dying too.” The old dragon is nearing the end of his days; Balinor can feel it deep in his bones. “His death will occur naturally but it'll happen nonetheless.”

“And if it does,” Hunith begins, cradling their baby to her chest, “then—”

“When Kilgharrah dies, he'll take this world with him,” says Balinor, remembering the tales he heard as a boy, the stories that every dragonlord was taught. At the time nobody would have expected for such calamities to happen therefore those stories had had a ring of myth to them, but Balinor knows them to be true. “The heart of Drakonia will stop beating with him. Disaster will follow.”

“But maybe you can do something,” Hunith insists, “tie him to you and...”

“That's impossible,” says Balinor, “it's only worked the other way around and we've seen what that's led to.”

The earth rumbles under his feet as if to confirm his words, to tell them that any amount of wishful thinking about the future is to be ruled out. “No, we have our last resort. If talking to the council doesn't work,” says Balinor, “then we'll send Ambrose out.”

“Can't you will the new dragon into existence though?” Hunith asks, as if she hasn't done this before or as if Balinor hasn't tried and tried. “You're one of the most powerful dragonlords.”

“I wish it could be so easy,” says Balinor. Despite the high levels of security surrounding it, he's felt the egg, tried to establish a connection to the life within, but failed. “It's not ready yet. The dragon within isn't ready to be born. It may take years for it to be. We don't have that kind of time.”

That belief is reinforced when the earth rumbles and explosions sound outside the castle he and Hunith barricaded themselves in. “It's started,” says Hunith, stating the obvious with a degree of fear that's unusual coming from her. She generally takes everything head on.

Balinor stops to listen. “Yes, it has,” he concludes, listening to the noises coming from outside. “There's really no more time.” He walks to the big doors separating their inner keep lodgings from the outside world. Before muttering the command that is set to open the doors, he looks back to Hunith and their son. “I'll be back. Whatever happens, I'll be back.”

“I hope you succeed,” Hunith says, rocking their baby in her arms. “For him. If not for us.”

Balinor nods and leaves. In the courtyard, he keeps his eyes on the ground. He doesn't want to take in the blood red sky, the pallid dying suns, looking like the feeble echo of what they once were, or the dark clouds blanketing them. They yield thunder that pulses in the air and rends the earth, gaping canyons opening where vegetation once was. Beaten earth, no longer yielding flower or fruit is all that's left for the eye to see. Thunder itself is tearing at the atmosphere, the jaws of darkness opening up where the holes are. 

The encroaching nothingness preying upon Drakonia is ominous indeed.

“Drakooon,” Balinor calls and out of the storm Kilgharrah emerges, gliding down on the rock outcrop Balinor's castle is built on. “Kweman hera.”

Kilgharrah lands on the outcrop, a few yards short of Balinor's body, lifting earth and dust with his weight. Once his landing would have been smooth and perfect. These days Kilgharrah can't pull that off, one of his shoulders falling lower than the other, the muscles in his wings looking flabby, the carapace softer, his eyes no longer as bright as they were. “My old friend,” Kilgharrah says, acknowledging him by tilting his head.

Balinor walks up to the big dragon, and puts a hand on his side. “I wouldn't ask you this but I need to make one last attempt with the High Council.”

“The dragonlords will no longer listen,” says Kilgharrah, even as he lowers himself down to help Balinor mount. “They've slaughtered us all, using the link between us to live longer themselves. The dragonlords have gone so far, they won't give up on what they think is the only way to make this planet survive.”

Balinor uses his knees to give Kilgharrah the order to fly, just as he used to when he was a boy and learning the ways of the dragons from his father. “I owe my wife and child one last try.”

“Ah the last dragonlord was born at last,” says Kilgharrah, taking flight and flying over the ruins of Drakonia, avoiding the tears in the atmosphere as well as the tornadoes ravaging the country. 

They fly over despoiled countryside and fortifications, over castles and farms, mills and caves. As they move over the area, it's easier for them to attest the damage Drakonia has undergone.

Rivers have dried up, fields have gone fallow, and forests have dwindled, supplying the inhabitants of Drakonia with less and less, both timber wise and nutrition wise. This blight is a horror to behold. Yet all this is only a symptom, a symptom of the undoing of Drakonia. 

Balinor lowers himself over Kilgharrah's back and pats the side of the big beast's back. “I'm sorry my old friend.”

“Dragons come and go like the stars in the sky,” says Kilgharrah philosophically.

And that's when Balinor understands that they're overestimating how long they have. Before seeing the state of Drakonia, he thought they might still have days. Now he thinks they have hours before their world implodes.

Despite his waning strength, Kilgharrah flaps his wings and lands in the courtyard of the Council Building, a rectangular edifice built on a foundation pile that stands over a big canal. The canal water still shimmers as if nothing was wrong with the universe.

When they sight him, the dragonlords and ladies gathered in the mullioned gallery stop and stare. It's as if they're no longer used to seeing dragons.

“Kilgharrah,” Balinor says, hopping off the dragon's back. “I want you to go and come only at my command. I don't trust the council.”

Kilgharrah's pupils narrow in the sea of his golden eyes. “You are wise, old friend.”

Before watching him fly off, Balinor pats Kilgharrah's side.

The council chamber is like how Balinor remembers it. The big mosaic adorning the floor still depicts the first dragon gifting his heart to Drakonia to make it the hospitable place it was before the change settled in. The colonnades and arches that make the council chamber lofty look as fine in their marble splendour as they ever did.

Yet things are different now. So much so that, despite his retiring habits, Balinor is here. Needs, must, he tells himself before he kneels before the enthroned council.

High Dragonlord Taliesin waves his hand. “Balinor, what brings you here in this moment of sore need?”

“A request,” Balinor says, wasting no time making his point.

High Dragonlord Taliesin tips up an eyebrow and asks, “What sort of request?”

“To send out the last living egg in the hopes of repopulating another planet, binding it to a new dragon when the time for it to be born comes.”

“It can't be done,” says Taliesin, drawing himself up on his high chair. “That's our very last resort. We need to keep the egg here so we can renew the bond again.”

“You know as well as I do that that egg isn't ready yet,” Balinor says, repeating the words he spoke to Hunith. “The egg won't be hatching, not now. And with no dragon there's no bond and no Drakonia.”

Taliesin looks both to his left and to his right, at his fellow council women. He seems to seek an agreement with them before speaking, though no communication passes, not out loud anyway, Taliesin speaks with renewed purpose “Without that egg,” he says in an explanatory tone, “there's no hope for Drakonia. With your dragon ill—” A low murmur rises in the chamber that interrupts Taliesin. “—we can't afford to lose our last shred of hope.”

“We can't close our eyes and shut out reality. Our planet is going to implode the moment Kilgharrah's heart stops beating,” Balinor growls, fists balled at his side. “The egg isn't ripe yet.”

“Perhaps it will be by the time the great dragon dies,” Melusine, Second Lady of the Council, says. 

“That's what we must believe,” the third council member says, agreeing with Melusine's stance.

Balinor shakes his head forcefully. “It could take as long as a generation, there is no hope of that. But repopulating another plan—”

A loud crash of weapons prevents Balinor from finishing his speech. He's barely turned around when he sees Borden, his friend Alvarr, and the Lady Enmyria crash into the room. They're wearing protective armour and wielding crossbows they point at the Council members.

“Let no person move,” Borden shouts, Taliesin himself in his sights. 

Despite being Borden's target, Taliesin stands, his robes straightening with his movement. “What is this outrage?”

“Since the government of Drakonia is no longer able to ensure the safety of its inhabitants,” Borden declares, voice loud but steady, “I'm officially taking over the rule of Drakonia and stripping the High Council of its executive power.”

“This is preposterous,” says Taliesin, waving his hands frantically. “The High Council has ruled Drakonia since time immemorial.”

“And it will now step down,” Borden says, advancing towards the dais the High Council occupies. “We'll save this planet yet.”

“This is an act of force that will not be tolerated,” the Lady Melusine says, eyes stormy.

No sooner has she finished condemning Borden's actions than the Lady Enmyria fires a bolt at her. It catches her in the stomach. With a gurgle the Lady Melusine slumps in her throne-like chair.

Disgusted by the use of violence, Balinor rounds on Borden. “Borden, you can't do this,” he says, spreading his hands to encompass the dais behind him. “Violence will never help anything.”

“It will, considering how inefficient they've been,” Borden tells him, fingers itching on the crossbow's catch. “And you know that.”

“And what is this supposed to achieve?” Balinor asks him, wishing Borden would see reason. They're just wasting the little time they do have. “Think about it, Borden. This makes no sense.”

“It makes all kind of sense,” Borden says, his eyes only half on Balinor. He's principally aiming his weapon at the High Council, his attention clearly on them. “If I get the egg, I can force it to hatch.”

Balinor's mouth falls open. “You can't,” he barks once he's recovered from the surprise hearing Borden's plan caused him. “You absolutely can't. The hatchling won't come at your bidding.”

“It will at yours.”

Balinor's chest deflates. “I wish Drakonia could be saved so easily, but it can't. I can't force nature, not even with my powers. The only solution is evacuation and relocation.”

“There's no time for that,” Borden says, pointing out a truth Balinor hasn't failed to grasp. “We can't relocate the whole of Drakonia.”

“I know that,” Balinor admits, an iron cage forming around his heart. “But maybe we can save a few. I'm sending my son out and so can some other people.”

“That's not enough,” Borden spits out, turning the crossbow on him. 

Balinor doesn't flinch at the weapon being aimed at him. “I know. But we have no other option. At least we'll be saving a few compared to none.”

Borden's brow creases with thought as if he's considering the option, then light sparks in his eyes and he hits Balinor with the body of his crossbow. 

Pain rings in Balinor's skull; it almost drowns Borden's words. “Sorry, I'll do it my way. I'll lead Drakonia out of these dark times.”

“You're delusional if you think you can,” Balinor rages, trying to point out the fallacy in Borden's thinking. Borden might be suffering from a case of messianic entitlement, but the situation is evident enough to prove his thinking folly. Nature is on the verge of collapse; it won't stop for Borden. “We only have hours.”

“That is what you say,” Borden says, “but I don't believe you. I'm going to take over and be the best leader this planet has ever seen.”

“You are refusing to see the facts,” Balinor tries one last time to argue. Borden after all has the council in his thrall; it wouldn't pay to thwart him in the circumstances. “We can't save the whole of Drakonia's population, nor can we force the hatchling to break the shell.” 

“I will,” says Borden, “I will restore the planet and the sway of dragons. I will do what none of you with your paltry minds have been able to do. The question now is whether you're with me or against me.”

“I won't side with you.”

Borden whips the crossbow at him and fires.

Without the shadow of a conscious thought, Balinor drops to the ground and cuts his feet from under Borden, sending him crashing downwards. Borden loses his crossbow, which slides the length of the floor, but not the will to fight. He leaps back on his feet and lunges again, his two associates watching the fight from the sidelines.

“Kill Taliesin,” Borden orders Alvarr before rushing at Balinor.

Letting out the breath he is holding, Balinor prepares for the charge, hauling himself to his feet and bracing both legs surely under him. But Borden is on him before Balinor can inhale, driving into him with his shoulder and punching his side.

Balinor ignores the pain and wrests free of Borden's hold. Once he's twisted aside and got some space between them, he reaches for his sword.

His associates watching, Borden does the same, blade hissing as it is bared. Swirling his cloak to blind him, Borden comes at Balinor. Balinor knows this move; it's been taught in all the military schools of Drakonia for generations. With the ease of recall, he parries and then slashes out himself, the point of his blade ripping Borden's cloak apart. 

Borden grunts, throwing a quick look at his side to make sure that only fabric, not flesh, was torn, and then attacks again.

Balinor dodges the blow but his soles slip on the marble floor. This causes Borden to come for Balinor again. Balinor runs a few steps, enough to leave the slippery floor section behind, and steps on stone.

When Borden thrusts for his chest, Balinor is ready. Their blades tangle together, ringing loudly, then Balinor knocks Borden's aside. He snaps it against a column, creating an opening. There's only a moment to think about his choices, whether to kill or not, but he makes his decision between a breath and the next. His sword gets caught in Borden's mail shirt, wounding only lightly, but enough to disorientate. In a thrice, Balinor's on Borden, falling on top of him and punching him senseless. 

But this is not a victory. Alvarr and Lady Enmyria are still present and fit to fight. Enmyria has her cross bolt trained on Taliesin and this stops the high-councilman from summoning the guards.

Balinor himself could come under fire if he makes the wrong move. This is an impasse. He bought time, but he can't change the outcome of this fight when Borden's people still have the upper hand. The more so since this is a coup d’état and more of Borden's supporters must be waiting outside the palace.

There's only one option now. Tipping his head back, Balinor shouts for Kilgharrah's intervention. He waits a second, two, six. Alvarr is close to placing a bolt in his chest when the Council Chamber's roof is ripped off like cardboard and Kilgharrah pokes his head in. 

To avoid the falling debris, everyone scrambles towards the edges of the room. Most look up in alarm, as they well might, for Kilgharrah is reaching a paw inside. 

Balinor makes a leap for it, clinging to a claw, and shouts, “Fly!”

With a sinew contraction, Kilgharrah takes off, his wings flapping to gain elevation. “Where to, old friend?”

Balinor is clinging for dear life to Kilgharrah's claw, his arms slung around it as he uses his lower back to climb upwards. When he's gained the top of Kilgharrah's leg, his arm around the girth of it, Balinor replies. “The tomb of Ashkanar.”

“So the time has come.” Kilgharrah veers left, nearly shaking Balinor off, flying towards the tomb of the Dragonlord Kings of old.

The Tomb of Ashkanar lies west of a mountain range Kilgharrah planes over. It's hidden within a tower-like monument that with its pointed dome strives for the sky. With Kilgharrah landing in the clearing surrounding it, Balinor knows he's alone in his mission. “Good luck,” says Kilgharrah, “and remember the traps guarding the dragon youngling.”

Balinor pats Kilgharrah in the side, “I'm not likely to forget them, old friend.”

The masonry trembles as the doors to the tomb open before him, raising dust. Balinor steps in, muffling his mouth so as not to inhale the musty air. Squinting to adapt to the darkness of the tomb, Balinor hesitates before taking a step, then shuffles forwards. 

No sooner has he advanced then there's a hiss of air. It's instinct that makes Balinor duck and roll. And it's his instinct that saves him. Two arrows embed themselves in the wall opposite, whistling a few inches past his head.

Goggling at the arrows quivering in place, Balinor exhales. “That was close,” he tells himself, before sprinting down the dark and dank corridor. He rushes towards the end of it, but has to slow down when the ground opens a chasm at his feet. Arms milling, he recovers his balance, casts a glance at the ravine, and taking a big breath, he retraces his steps, takes off at a run and jumps.

Setting off a shower of falling rocks, he lands on the other side, feet landing right at the edges of the chasm. For a second he nearly topples over backwards but using his muscles he twists his body forward and falls to his knees. He breathes in and out, his heart in his chest. That was close. It's only by a hair's breadth that he's alive at all and failure is just around the corner. For a moment he considers folding over and not doing anything at all. Drakonia is doomed anyway. But then he thinks of his son, innocent and a few hours old, and climbs to his feet. 

Once more he sprints towards the innermost depths of Ashkanar's tomb. He leaps over booby traps, ducks when half-moon blades are shot out of concealed embrasures in the walls, and almost runs into an enormous web spun by a spider as big as a horse. After having stabbed the creature guarding it, he cuts through it with his sword and barrels on, finally entering a high ceilinged room.

The room's roof seems to be the same as the tower's pinnacle. Light from the outside shines over a plinth on top of which the last living dragon egg is placed. The rest of the chamber is thrown in shadow but the egg sits regally on a nest of rough diamonds. 

It's beautiful, giving off a mild light of its own, and Balinor can sense the life sparking within it. The Dragon will be born one day, if Balinor can protect the egg and send it somewhere safe. 

Unfortunately, the pleasant echo of the potential life flourishing within the egg is not the only vibe Balinor can pick up off his surroundings. He can also feel the wards placed around the egg, the dragonish incantations protecting the young life within it against being plucked before its time. 

Despite this forewarning, Balinor approaches the egg. He takes a moment to look at it, be struck by its beauty and the chord it sounds deep within him, and then acts. He drops his belt with his heavy metal buckle and dagger on the plinth and takes the egg instead. Cautiously, he nestles it against his chest and steps back.

He's almost ready to call himself victorious when the earth rumbles under him. The walls of the chamber start to crack and then the ceiling caves in, big slabs of brown rock falling down. To avoid being flattened, Balinor runs towards the exit, the walls closing in on him from behind. He sprints so as not to be crushed, bounding ahead with his heart in his mouth, the egg cradled safe against him.

With every leaping step Balinor takes, the tomb's structure comes undone. By then, Balinor's running so hard he has developed a stitch in the side. But when he sees the aperture leading back to the clearing circling the tower, he makes one last concerted effort and propels himself forward. Nearly falling, he comes tumbling out of Ashkanar's tomb, holding the egg aloft and whistling for Kilgharrah. 

The dragon swoops down with a crash of wings, evidently tired and sick. Yet he breathes a cloud of fire in the air when he sees the egg. “A hope for my race,” he says, before lowering a wing to let Balinor climb onto his back. “It makes my dying heart glad, friend.”

Once both himself and the egg are securely settled, Balinor gives Kilgharrah the order to take off. “Back to the castle, Kilgharrah. Let's go back to my wife.”

With a whoosh of wings, Kilgharrah takes flight.

The journey back is fraught with dangers. Bolts of lightning fall from the cracking sky and threaten to burn them to a cinder. The earth opens up and spits torrents of lava like a fountain whose jet is trying for the sky. Black holes descend and nearly engulf them into nothingness.

And yet they land in Balinor's courtyard. The egg tucked under his arm for safekeeping, Balinor rushes up the stairs to the inner keep, unbolts the door and dashes up stairs and down corridors to get to his and his wife's lodgings.

With a last dash, he throws the doors open and then secures them again. “Hunith,” he shouts, “prepare the vessel and put the boy in it.”

Hunith is holding Ambrose in her arms, and for an instant she seems to be tightening her hold. But then she moves and places the baby in the vessel. 

In two steps, Balinor has joined her and placed the egg in the vessel at the baby's feet.

“Is it safe?” Hunith asks, her fingers touching the back of Ambrose's kicking feet. “I know the druids made this vessel and that they were sure it led to other planets in other systems but—”

“It will work,” says Balinor, taking his wife's hands. “We have to believe it will work.”

Hunith nods. “Then I'll start the prayer,” she says, lifting her hands.

Balinor joins her and the vessel starts to shimmer, golden dust circling it. As the halo covers the vessel, the latter comes in and out of focus, as though it's straddling two worlds, half in this, half in another one Balinor can't imagine. 

The enchantment is working so well that Balinor is starting to hope everything is going to be fine, when the doors to his and Hunith's private chambers burst open. Borden breaks into Balinor's chamber, sword bared, and declares, “Balinor, give back the egg and I'll let you live.”

“I won't,” Balinor tells him, “you know I won't.”

“Then you leave me no choice,” Balinor says, before attacking him.

Balinor unsheathes his sword and deflects the blow coming at him. When a second one comes, he heaves up the sword again, dancing away the moment he can disengage. Casting a look around the room, Balinor jumps backwards, hoping to draw Borden away from the vessel. It's less visible by now, halfway towards that other world Hunith's prayer is sending it to.

Needing the vessel to make it to the other side, Balinor focuses the fight as far away from his son as he can. In his rage to punish him, Borden rushes at him. Balinor twists his sword to parry the strike, and as Borden stumbled past, he feints yet again, landing a blow. It opens a gash in Borden's side but it's not enough to stop him. If anything the sting enrages him further.

“I wanted you by my side,” he says, as he vaults round and hacks at him, “but now I see what you're up to. You want to take—” Borden's breath comes fast, interrupting his delivery – “my place, my victory, and my rewards.”

Borden's sword only touches Balinor's side, merely glancing across his leather waistcoat. “What rewards, Julius, we're all dying—”

Borden doesn't listen to him. “I'll save Drakonia and reap the benefits,” he says, as he swings the sword at Balinor. “I'll do what it takes.”

Twisting free once again, Balinor goes under Borden's sword and punches him in the stomach. Balinor hopes that with this move Borden will drop the sword but he doesn't. He clouts Balinor in the shoulder instead, kicking him forward. Balinor pitches headlong and Borden renews his attack. When Balinor's sword points downwards Borden steps on it. Knowing that Balinor has no defence, Borden closes in. 

Letting the sword clatter to the floor, Balinor steps back, but Borden's quick.

“Balinor,” Hunith shouts, stopping in the chant that's supposed to displace the vessel.

“Go on, finish it,” says Balinor, just as Borden buries his sword in his belly.

“Balinor,” Hunith screams, rushing to him.

Pain blooming in his guts like hot fire, Balinor has to fight to find the strength to deliver words. “Finish the chant,” he rasps, before crashing to his knees and then onto his side.

“I'll stop you yet,” Borden barks at Hunith as he wrenches the blade free, jerking it out to make the wound as wide as possible, fire enveloping Balinor's guts. “You'll see.”

“Hunith,” Balinor says, as blood froths out of his mouth, “the prayer.”

As Hunith yells the last of few words of the prayer, the vessel bearing child and egg finally disappears.

That's the last thing Balinor sees as the blood spills out of him. The last thing he hears is the tramp of boots entering the chamber and the words, “Julius Borden, in the name of the High Council, you're under arrest.”

 

***** 

Hunith watches as Julius Borden, Balinor's one time friend, and his associates, Lady Enmyria and Alvarr, are condemned by the high council for crimes against the state and the murder of her husband.

Though she wishes she could, she doesn't cry. Nor does she flinch when the sentence is read out.

“Julius Borden, Lady Enmyria of House Wolfenden, Alvarr of the Druids, you are all condemned,” Taliesin declaims slowly and with a certain amount of satisfaction with the punishment, “to perpetual detention in the Council Hall's oubliette.”

“But it's a step into a non universe,” Borden protests, fighting against the guards holding him down. “Another dimension. It's a punishment worse than death.”

“You can't,” Lady Enmyria spits out, putting up as much opposition as Borden. “It hasn't been done in forever. Death would be much more welcome.”

“You sought to undo the very principles this state is built on,” Taliesin says, handing away the scroll the sentence was written on, “shedding blood is condemned by the laws of this land. The punishment fits the crime.”

Hunith doesn't rejoice in Borden's fall nor is she pleased at hearing his and his companion's shouts as they're shoved into the oubliette. She's too busy reining in the tears that would fall but for her knowing Balinor wouldn't have wanted her to bend. But with justice seen to, there's no more reason to stay in the Great Council's chambers, so without asking for leave, as unthinking of etiquette as the commoner she once was, she retires to her own keep.

In the courtyard she finds Kilgharrah lying beneath a tree, looking into the distance. When he sees her, he says, “I thought I would have died first.”

“He fought to give your race and mine a chance,” Hunith tells the great dragon, even though she, not belonging to the conquering race of dragonlords, has no bond to the creature. Still, she feels old Kilgharrah's pain as any other living creature might. His pain meshes so well with hers that she can't quite ignore it. “And perhaps, who knows, it's worked.”

Kilgharrah puts his head between his legs, body sagging. “The young dragonlord and the little dragon,” he says with a tired huff, his body sagging. “There's indeed room for hope.”

“One we have to cling to if we want to fight,” she says, tasting salt on her lips.

“True,” says Kilgharrah, looking to the far horizon, the sky churning red, and beyond, probably trying to envision that other world in which miracles are possible. “Indeed.”

When Kilgharrah's breath snuffs out and his massive, scaly body slumps, she knows the last dragon is gone. And then her world bursts on fire.

 

*****

 

“I want you all to divide in groups of twenty-five,” says Ms Lake, clapping her hands together and craning her neck to look admonishingly at the stragglers. “Now before you go up, I want you to behave. That means no screaming, no pushing, no tripping the others.” Ms Lake counts the items off her fingers. “And, yes, I'm looking at you, Valiant.”

Valiant wolf-whistles. “Oi, you don't need to just look, love. We can ditch these other useless tossers and find a lonely spot to get off.”

Freya elbows Merlin in the ribs, then leans close to whisper, “Valiant is always such a twat.”

“And a bully,” Will joins in, massaging his chest, where he was hit by Valiant a couple of days ago. 

Merlin grimaces; it's not as if he can help it. Judging Valiant an epic fucktard comes with the territory of knowing him. “A few more months and school's over.” 

Merlin's been telling himself that for the longest time. It's his one reason to get up in the morning.

“Yeah,” Will agrees, “and then we'll be rid of Twat Valiant.”

“Yes, but,” Freya says, pulling together the folds of her over-large cardigan, “that means we won't be all together in the same school anymore.”

“We'll always be friends,” Merlin says, looking down at her while trying to coax a smile from her. “That's a promise. Whatever happens.”

A hint of a smile tugs at Freya's lips, making Merlin go a little soft in the guts, but then it dissolves again when they're made to climb into the capsule. As soon as she steps into it, Freya's smile falters and her face goes two shades paler. 

Hoping it can help, Merlin takes her hand, “Still afraid of small spaces?”

Freya grits her teeth but takes his hand. “Yes, and heights,” Freya says, getting a bit green around the gills.

“We could tell Ms Lake that you'd rather stay here and wait the rest of the class out,” Merlin suggests, staring up at the big wheel. From down here it looks humongous. Going for a ride shouldn't be the experience to go for if you're afraid of heights. Merlin bets that the city would look fantastic from up there but Freya's not likely to think the same. “I'll stay down with you.”

Freya shakes her head. “No, I'm not ruining your first school trip since year 10, I'm not.”

Merlin squeezes Freya's hand and says, “You wouldn't be ruining anything. I love being with you.” 

Will rolls his eyes. “My god, that's gag-worthy, mate.”

“You mean to say I should leave Freya to fend for herself?” Merlin screws up his face, ignoring Will's attitude.

No,” says Will, snorting loudly, “just try not to sound like one of your mum's Mills and Boon novels.”

“Read many, do you, to know all about them?” Merlin says, wagging his eyebrows as he’s scoring a point.

Will's about to reply when Freya takes both their hands. “Boys, stop it. Let's do it like this. How about I get into that thing and you both hold my hands?”

“It's him who wants in your knickers, Frey, not me.”

“That's so crass, Will,” says Freya, over Merlin's furious spluttering.

Merlin's saved from having to comment by Ms Lake, calling out to them, “Emrys, Waters, Foster, don't dawdle.”

“If you're ready,” Merlin tells Freya, wanting to gauge her stress levels before he accompanies her into the capsule. If she gives even so much as a hint of not being comfortable with the ride, Merlin's going to stay grounded with Freya.

“Of course,” Freya says, making a move towards the queue of students waiting to enter the capsule, “I won't be the only one not to do it. I'm much cooler than that.”

Merlin's not sure her reasoning is sound but if Freya's positive she's fine then he's going to trust her assessment.

When they board the capsule, Merlin's immediately fascinated by the clear glass structure of the thing itself, so much so he even forgets about Valiant's pissing contest with all other students, the vulgar comments he directs at Ms Lake, and his mates bullying of those classmates they think of as geeky. 

To be fair, they're probably lumping Merlin in that group as well, but Merlin's too awed by the tech to be listening much, so their words don't faze him in the least. They can even have the bench all to themselves; Merlin's happy enough standing by the glass partition.

He's so into it, even though they've scarcely begun ascending, that he fails to notice Ms Lake starting to talk. 

He only starts listening when Will kicks his foot. Then he hears Ms Lake's voice. “As you all know, part of Castlebay Comprehensive's English and Geography curriculum compounds the history of urban development. Now, that might seem like a dry as dust subject,” she says, causing half the class to agree with her. “But that is not in the least true. And what better way to show you that than to let you see that truth in action?” 

Ms Lake points at the view that is becoming more and more visible. “That's why we're here. The London eye,” Ms Lake begins—

“Is a shitty trap for tourists,” says Valiant's mate, causing Myror to chirp up and say, “Shut up, you bellend.”

Ms Lake ignores both students and attempts to continue with her lesson. “I was saying,” she goes on, stressing her last words, “that the London Eye allows us a glimpse into London's past as well as its present. Because London has not always looked this.” Ms Lake wings an eyebrow. “Now let's try and remember which factors, which big, dire events,” she eyes her students one by one, clearly hoping to get an answer from, “contributed to shape this city as we now see it today.”

It's Freya, who's really one of Castlebay's top students, who answers, “The Great Fire.”

Merlin smiles at her; he likes it when Freya does well. She gets this proud look in her eyes that should always be there. Besides, participating in the lesson is making her forget how high up they actually are. And that's pretty high up considering they're almost at the top and that even the Parliament building, which Merlin's always thought of as massive, looks far less imposing from where they are. 

“That is right,” Ms Lake says, unaware of Merlin's reverie. “And can you tell me the name of a famous writer who referenced the Great Fire in his writings?”

“Samuel Pepys,” one of the girls from Freya's group says.

Ms Lake smiles, probably glad one of her students has been paying attention to her lessons, when the capsule lurches and a big noise splits their ears.

Merlin's classmates all gasp and curse. But when the capsule groans and then stalls, there's more screaming.

Ms Lake holds both hands up. “Let's all calm down, shall we? I'm sure this is a minor setback and that the capsules will start moving in a moment.”

To belie Ms Lake's words there's another wrenching noise, a metal shearing off metal sound. The sound's not even dwindled when Merlin finds himself propelled forwards. Unable to cling to anything, he slides downwards, landing on his hands and then rolling fast. He smashes against the door and that's how he comes to a halt. When he blinks, smarting from the pain of being thrust forward and then impacting the glass, he realises what the situation is. The capsule has come unhinged and is tilting.

Most of his classmates are sprawled on the floor of the capsule, one on top of the other. Some scream; some sniffle or cry. It doesn't take a genius to guess why. They're swaying in the wind and it looks pretty bad. The capsule is only attached to the wheel structure by a bunch of bolts, which, Merlin fears, means it's actually hanging by a thread.

“Stay calm,” Ms Lake says, even as she crawls forwards on hands and knees. “They'll rescue us.”

Most of Merlin's classmates calm a little at her words. Freya is crying though. She's not alone in her panic either. A boy is breathing so fast through his nostrils Merlin thinks he might be undergoing a panic attack. Not that panic is wholly unjustified; one more loud metal whine scrapes at their ears and the capsule shakes. 

Merlin's stomach climbs through his mouth, or so it seems, and his body slams against the capsule's floor, a weight sitting on his chest.

It doesn't take a genius to guess what's happening. They're falling, tumbling down. They're going to crash.

The screams from his classmates increase in pitch.

There's nothing for it. He can't not. He has a few seconds tops to act. Ignoring the warning bells ringing in his head about being in public, Merlin closes his eyes and concentrates on his magic inside of him. 

The spark of it that he always suppresses leaps at his beck and call and coils around him. It's responsive and ready to do his bidding. It lights his chest up and makes his blood sing. For a moment, his magic is so strong that it threatens to take over. It's been lying dormant too long. But he exercises his will over it and directs it where he wants, wrapping it around the capsule to slow down its descent.

As this happens, the pressure on his chest eases. He's going a bit blind about this, has no idea where he's steering the capsule, so he opens his eyes to see where he should direct it. He's located a spot when the doors keeping the capsule closed crack open. It's only glass that gives, but it's enough. 

Merlin's magic saves him from falling into the void. He pretends to cling to one of the handles to make it look as though that's not the case but the truth is that without his magic he'd be a dead man. Unfortunately, he hasn't reckoned with sheer bad luck. 

Valiant, who's been clinging to one of the metal fixtures so far, gets elbowed out of his prime perch by one of his bully mates.

Gravity does the rest. Despite Valiant scrabbling for purchase, he snowballs downwards, hitting people as he goes. With a scream, he lands on the side of the capsule and pinballs out of the formerly closed doors. Though Merlin's piloted them lower, Valiant is sure to bounce against the wheel's metal structure and into the Thames. Merlin's not sure he can survive that fall. As obnoxious as Valiant is, and however much Merlin has so far hitched to punch him in the face, he can't let him die. 

Closing his eyes, Merlin lets himself fall too. As he does, the void beneath turning his stomach so that it seems to line his mouth, he hears Freya scream, “Merlin!” at the top of her lungs. He's sorry he can't reassure her. He's terrified about having to explain this one away anyway. But there's no time to think. 

As he's free-falling, he grasps for his magic. He uses it to make the capsule land safely and to slow his own descent as much as possible. On his way down, he makes a grab for Valiant's middle, does magic and cushions both their falls.

There's one moment during which he and Valiant are stuck looking in each other's eyes. Valiant's are wide with shock and fear, Merlin gauges, but also with surprise. His pupils widen and his nostrils flare. Just before they hit water, Merlin gets the feeling that Valiant knows.

But then all ability to think evaporates with the shock of cold that freezes Merlin's lungs and stops his heart. It envelopes his body like a blanket, punching the air out of him. Mercilessly, it compresses his chest until Merlin wills it to stop, using his magic to bridle the pain, to help his body break the surface. He clears the water with a gasp, drinking in big lungfuls of much needed air.

Once he's safe, he floats Valiant back up to the surface. When Valiant emerges, he looks pale and pasty, and has his eyes closed. Merlin's not even sure he's breathing, but he can't think about that now. Valiant can't have died despite Merlin's best efforts. So Merlin swims him to shore, a limp body to tread water with. If he were relying on his strength alone, Merlin's not sure he would make the river bank, but a magic boost sees him through to the spot where rescue services are waiting for them, shouting encouragement to him.

When he makes it to the embankment, everything seems to happen at once. Rescue services get Merlin a blanket and give Valiant first aid, after which they cart him off onto an ambulance. A paramedic insists upon getting Merlin to St Thomas Hospital for a check up, but Merlin staunchly refuses, reassuring the paramedic that aside from being drenched he's perfectly fine. 

He even jumps up and down to prove it. Since Merlin's seventeen they don't want to listen to him. They won't take the risk, they say. So instead of sneaking out to the town as any self respecting teenager on a school trip would do, he spends the evening at St Thomas' hoping with all that he has that his doctors won't find anything inhuman in him, anything that alerts them to his magic. 

Would their tests reveal how odd, how unnatural, how out of this world he is?

He spends the night on a gurney, twisting the sheet covering him and jumping every time a nurse approaches him, wondering whether they'll out and arrest him, or experiment upon him. 

He has seen enough horror films when staying up at night against Gaius and Alice's orders to be able to summon lots of dreadful scenarios. He only sleeps between four and dawn. Given the nature of his thoughts from before he fell asleep, his dreams turn into nightmares. He somersaults in 'bed' at around six, forehead shiny with sweat, hands damp. 

Since he's apparently sound and nothing odd came out of the tests, he's released a few hours afterwards. The night at the hospital is nothing in stress terms compared to the frown Gaius greets him with once he makes it home.

Upon seeing him, Merlin drops his rucksack on the jetty. “I thought I was meant to get the boat home.”

“Well, forgive me for worrying about you, Merlin,” Gaius tells him, tipping an eyebrow, “especially considering that Ms Lake called me to tell me what happened and that I have a fair idea of what really went down.”

Merlin cast his chin down. “It's not my fault.” It really wasn't. He couldn't have foreseen such an event as the London Eye malfunctioning on his second ever school trip. “I had to do something.”

Seeing other students getting off the gangplank, Gaius leads him towards the terminal's exit. “Come, we don't want all the world to see.”

Only once they've reached the four by four, does Gaius really start telling Merlin off. He sits by the wheel, not turning the ignition on, waiting for the passengers who were aboard the ferry to disperse to their cars. “You were this close to being discovered.”

Merlin wants to fist his eyes to stop up the tears of frustration but neither does he do that, nor does he actually cry. It's not as if Gaius would chide him for that, he's always been liberal about people expressing their feelings, but it seems to Merlin that if he starts he'll never stop. “What should I have done, Gaius? We would all have died if I'd done nothing. And as it happens they haven't found out about me.”

“Ms Lake remarked on how lucky you've been being able to save that classmate of yours.”

Merlin knows what all that means, how close he came to the truth being found out, but he doesn't believe he could have done it any different. “I couldn't let him die.”

“I know, Merlin,” Gaius says, sighing from deep within is chest. “All I'm saying is that you should pay more attention to keeping your powers secret. Ms Lake came close to suspecting—”

“I couldn't have let him die,” Merlin says again, stubbornly making his only good point. “Besides, if they're not for good, then what use are my powers?”

Gaius slowly shakes his head. “Merlin, I'm glad you saved that boy. But let's think of your powers as something that just is. They're not meant for you to try heroics with.”

Merlin looks out the car window and at the pale sky overhead. “So they're something to keep hidden?”

“I wouldn't want you to hide, my boy,” Gaius says, starting the car and driving out of the car park, “but I know enough of the world to understand that powers like yours could draw the wrong kind of attention. And we don't want that, do we?”

Once again worst case scenarios pop in Merlin's brain and he has visions of a future in which he's held by faceless authorities wanting to test him for the source of his magic. “No, I guess we don't.”

“It is too dangerous,” Gaius tells him, driving the old Jeep eastwards and away from Castlebay.

Once they're past the bay at Brevig, they take the side road. Merlin's used to ride this way to school, pedalling hard against the backdrop of Heaval and Hartaval, the highest hills on Barra. This stretch of road is so well known to him in its stark desolate beauty, that he doesn't need to look at it to remember any of its features. Ordinarily he wouldn't be contemplating the winding path at all: he wouldn't be paying attention to the sheep grazing by the side of the road, or the far away hint of cobalt sea that peeks at intervals from the hills, but this time he needs the comfort of something known.

Before the accident, before the capsule went down, he'd wanted nothing more than to go to London and lose himself in a sea of people who would never stop to look at him twice. He'd thought the big city could be a place where he could thrive. Because of its very anonymity, it had promised shelter. Nobody would see past his ordinary looks to see that he wasn't like the others.

And now he just wants to hug his pillow and hope reality won't bite him in the arse.

He's so absorbed in his thoughts, that when the four by four stops Merlin doesn't notice. He only realises they've come to a standstill when Gaius puts his hand on his shoulder and says, “Alice was worried about you.”

Prompted by Gaius, he looks to the house's steps. Her hands clasped together, Alice is standing right there on the top one. 

When he sees her, blood rushes to Merlin's heart. He opens the door and runs up to her, flinging himself in her arms. “Alice,” he says, squeezing his eyes tight.

“My boy,” she says, ruffling his hair, “my boy.”

 

**** 

 

Even though Gaius will probably have his hide, Merlin is pinning his favourite bands posters to the wall of his room, when there's a knock on his door. An excuse ready on the tip of his tongue involving the importance of music to young minds, Merlin jumps off the bed, but is surprised to be greeted by no telling off.

“Merlin,” Alice tells him, “Valiant and his father are downstairs.”

Merlin swallows, his heart skipping a beat. For long moments he can't find anything to say. “Is he, I mean does he...” he asks.

“I don't know,” Alice tells him, her eyes gently taking him in. 

Merlin nods, sits on his bed and puts his shoes on, pretending he's suddenly lost the ability to redo his laces. After all, his hands feel big and clumsy enough, its movements nervous and short, to make his lie plausible. 

When he can no longer delay the meeting, he goes downstairs where Gaius, Valiant and his dad are. The latter are seated on the same sofa – the milky one Alice never lets him sprawl on because she maintains he'll ruin it. But that's not the strange part. However much Alice loves her furniture, she's a hospitable person and would always offer the best seats to her guests.

What's strange is Valiant. He looks... different. His hair's combed back and not up in spikes as usual. And instead of his 'normal' clothes, consisting mainly of skull tees and jeans falling off his arse, Valiant has on a prim white shirt buttoned to the collar and jeans that are belted up past his hips, no hint of underwear in sight.

When Merlin appears, Mr West shoots up and crosses the room to shake his hand. “Thank you so much for saving my son,” he says, looking back at Valiant. “Son...”

Out of instinct Merlin almost takes a step back but he's surprised when Valiant doesn't do anything to attack him. Instead he says, “Thank you, Merlin, for saving me.”

“I didn't save you,” Merlin shoots out, denial whip fast on his tongue.

Valiant's eyes grow larger. He tilts his head back as though to better assess Merlin. “But you did,” he says. The obsequious niceness in Valiant's tone vanishes but his look sharpens. It looks as though he may know, but Merlin can't be positive. He can only hope Valiant was too out of it during the incident to feel the magic. “I'm sure you did.”

“I just helped you swim to shore,” Merlin says, only admitting to what everyone knows happened. 

Valiant ducks his head, grunts. “No, you—”

“You saved my son's life,” Mr West puts in, swiftly enough to almost make Merlin think he's on the same page as his son regarding Merlin's strange abilities. “That's what it boils down to. And we're grateful. We'll always be.” Mr West puts a hand on his son's shoulder. “Won't we, Val?”

“Yeah,” Valiant says, still looking at the furniture rather than Merlin. “Yeah.”

From that day forward, Valiant doesn't bother Merlin anymore.

 

***** 

 

Arthur clicks print and minimises the window he was working on. The printer releases sheet after sheet, coughing up all the material Arthur needs.

Sauntering in Gwaine grabs the topmost print out. “Don't tell me you believe this story,” he says, perching on the edge of Arthur's desk, a tea-mug, probably spiked, in his hand. “It's utter crap and Aglain vetoed it.”

“It's of historical interest,” Arthur says, snatching the page out of Gwaine's hands and sinking back into his chair. “And there's lots of police cordoning the area for an archaeological find.”

“Aglain hates that kind of source,” Gwaine says, raising his eyebrow. “You know that.”

“I have all the respect in the world for Aglain,” Arthur tells Gwaine, not lying in the least. “But I have instincts and they tell me there was something to that tip off.”

“Look, Arthur,” Gwaine says, shifting and gesticulating with his mug, “do you really thing that ark thing is an alien artefact?”

Arthur isn't sure of that; of course he can't be positive. “They ran a C-14 scan on the thing and they can't date it.”

“Maybe they're not working it right.”

Arthur expels a rush of air. “Gwaine, do you have the first idea about dating artefacts?”

“Well, no,” says Gwaine, puffing out his cheeks. “But I'm a reasonable fella. I can generally detect scams when I run into them.”

“Well, me too.” Arthur gathers all his print-outs together. “And this could be a scoop.”

“One Aglain won't sanction,” Gwaine points out, not giving his eyebrow waggling a rest. “And you know how the boss is.”

“Yes, I do know,” Arthur says, rising and putting both hands down on his desk, face very close to Gwaine's when he adds, “that's why, as the good friend you are, you're not going to tell him a thing about this.”

“Arthur, come on!”

Arthur leaves the desk behind to gather his coat and messenger bag and deposits his printouts in the side pouch. 

“There's more I oughtn't tell?” Gwaine guesses, looking at him with a shrewd air about him. “Isn't there?”

“There might be,” Arthur says, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “I'm going north to pursue this story.”

 

***** 

 

Old Mr MacNeil slips into Tigh na Mara's for his Friday pint, taking a seat at the bar. Merlin is pulling it, when Halig, a rather difficult patron, pulls Sefa by the wrist, trying to get her to sit on his lap. “Come on,” he says, leering. “All that coming and going, you must be tired.”

“Let go,” Sefa says, wrenching her arm away.

“Aw, don't want to sit on my cock, do you,” Halig says, grabbing Sefa's apron to pull her to him.

Merlin jumps over the bar and comes to stand between Halig and Sefa. “Hey,” he says, “I think you want to leave the staff alone.”

“Or what?” asks Halig, standing up to show just how large he is. “You'll show me, uh, nancy boy?”

His magic playing savagely under his skin, Merlin balls his fists. “Yes, I'll show you out of the premises,” he says, reining his magic in even if he doesn't want to. 

“And how will you do that?” Halig punches the meat of his palm. “Uh?”

The moment Merlin takes a step forward, thinking of ways to best Halig without using his magic, Sergeant Garth steps into the pub. “Trouble, people?”

“No,” Merlin's quick to say, not wanting the pub to get a bad reputation or to say he needs help when in truth he doesn't. “It's all fine here.”

“Yeah, all fine,” Halig confirms, then his fist rends the air, stopping an inch short of Merlin's face. “See, all a joke.”

Merlin feels his face go hot. His fingers curl at his sides and his magic simmers inside him, waiting to lash out. For a seemingly timeless span he hears no noises, just the crackling of his magic simmering within him, isolating him from the others. He's about to unleash it, when he remembers Gaius' words. “Whatever happens, keep your magic secret, my boy.” So he lets go of the threads of power he has let out on the surface and breathes out.

“No trouble,” he tells Sergeant Garth, who's looking for confirmation from him rather than Halig.

Halig smirks at him and Sergeant Garth looks as if he wants to coax an accusation out of Merlin, but Merlin doesn't speak up

Clearly wanting to stay out of trouble, Sefa doesn't either. 

“If you're both sure,” Sergeant Garth says, eyes going from one to the other of them.

“Yes,” both he and Sefa say at the same time. 

“Well, in that case,” Sergeant Garth tells them without finishing that thought. Shifting his attention onto Halig, Sergeant Garth says, “You'll be coming with me.”

“But I didn't do nothing,” says Halig, his tiny eyes puckering defiantly.

“Just come with me,” says Sergeant Garth, pulling Halig to the door. “I'll escort you home. Northern Constabulary premium service.”

“But—” Halig tries to argue.

All of Halig's protestations get him nowhere; Sergeant Garth politely but firmly escorts him out of the pub.

When Halig's gone, Merlin turns to Sefa. “Are you all right?” he asks, his hand on her shoulder, giving her one quick consolatory squeeze.

“Yes.” Sefa smiles feebly. “The job's just shit sometimes.”

“I know,” Merlin says, a sigh rattling out of him. Accidents like the one with Halig aren't that rare. “I know.”

Now that everything's back under control, Merlin returns to the bar to serve those customers that are waiting for him. 

It gets so busy Merlin has no time to think or let his anger fester. He's too pre-occupied with pulling pints and serving drams for that. One or two habitual patrons natter on about local gossip subjects, there's even some Indiana Jones type stuff about a dig in St Kilda mixed in, and that distracts him too.

It's only when his shift is over and he walks out into the night that the simmering discontent from before makes a comeback. 

In an attempt to wash himself clean of it, he breathes in the salty night air. It calms him a little, his blood coursing more sluggishly in his veins, his magic no longer prickling under his skin.

Feeling a little better, he takes a walk and ends up in the harbour. Enjoying the wind on his skin he wanders around until he runs into Halig's fishing boat. 

He recognises it by the skull painted on the side. It's then that the thought surfaces to his mind. It's mean and petty but it erases the residual irritation abiding within him. Besides, he finds the idea amusing. Following a look-around to confirm he's alone on the jetty, he summons his magic and uses it to scupper the ship.

That should teach Halig to harass waitresses in future. 

Pity that he'll have to move on now, just to make sure the foundering of Halig's fishing boat isn't associated with him.

 

***** 

 

Reaching St Kilda isn't easy, even in this day and age. Despite modernity having made transport comfortable, getting to a remote Western Island, and one that was evacuated scores of years ago, isn't as easily done as people might think. Only a few cruise ships and yachts make the voyage and of those none starts in winter. Unless you're very determined to change things, that is.

“I'll pay you double,” says Arthur, following Captain James Tristan into a dilapidated old pub whose clientèle is so rugged they look as though they've just come out of a canvas picturing hardy old mariners. “And in advance.”

Arthur following on his heels, Captain Tristan makes a beeline for the bar, “Nah,” he says, placing an order for a dram of whisky in between addressing Arthur. “I'm not taking the _Grainne_ to sea in November. Not all the way out to St Kilda.”

“Oh come on,” Arthur says, watching the Captain down his whisky. “It's a good deal. This isn't tourist season and you can't be working much. A thousand pounds should be more than welcome.”

“Pardon me if I'm not eager to sink my boat and drown in these seas, Sassenach,” Captain Tristan tells him with a moue of disgust. “There are storms brewing.”

“We can get there before they hit,” Arthur points out since he's studied the weather reports. He tries another way. “Please, it's important.”

The Captain puts the glass down with a thunk and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he says. “I won't risk that. Come back in the Summer.”

Arthur slaps two thousand pounds on the counter. “I'm doubling the sum.”

“I'll take you,” says a new person Arthur has to spin around to see. It's a woman, if her tone hadn't suggested that before, blond tresses flowing under a knitted cap. She's wearing jeans and combat boots that look casual enough and a low cut top that isn't and shows off her generous bosom. “Add some five hundred for the victuals and I'll take you.”

Even though five hundred pounds for food equals to robbery, Arthur says, “Deal.”

“No way,” Captain Tristan says, insinuating himself in the conversation. “That's too dangerous, Isolde. You'd be risking your life.”

Isolde smiles smugly. “You would be risking your life. Me... I'm a better sailor than you.”

“Isolde, this is not a game of one-upmanship,” Captain Tristan says.

Arthur isn't about to lose his one chance of getting his passage to remote St Kilda, so he secures his money back and says, “Let's go talk somewhere else.”

“Isolde,” Captain Tristan growls, giving Isolde a look full of concern and irritation that she ignores. Rather she smirks at the captain then turns on Arthur, leading him to a secluded table. Decisively she says, “So let's get down to business.”

“Two thousand five hundred if you get me to St Kilda,” says Arthur, hoping the woman won't back out now that she's done challenging the Captain. “We leave tonight.”

“Two thousand five hundred, I choose the course,” says Isolde, an eyebrow arched at him. “And we're not starting in the dark. We leave at dawn.”

Even though Arthur is itching to go, he can see the prudence in that. Besides Isolde is the only one willing to take him; he's not about to jeopardise that just so he can start a few hours earlier. “All right, then. But we won't leave later than that.”

Now that their deal is struck, Isolde's shoulders sag and she smiles less challengingly. “You know, if it's about that old artefact they found, it can wait. It could have been there for ages.”

Arthur tenses and squints at Isolde. “How do you know it's about that?”

Isolde shrugs. “Well, it's the only thing of note to happen in St Kilda for a while and I happen to know someone else who's on the island and who's taken an interest...”

Arthur's sixth sense is pricked; his skin itches with the potential contained within that statement. “Someone else?”

“Yeah,” Isolde says, eyeing the bar. “Someone else.” Her eyes rove round the pub as if she's searching for inspiration as to what to say next. “Want a beer to celebrate our pact?”

Arthur isn't known for being so easily led off topic. He knows his job pretty well, how to get people to talk, how to pin them and make them chatty. So he doesn't give up. “Someone who's not a member of the archaeologists' team working on site, you mean?”

Isolde's mouth falls open even though she shuts it immediately. “I—”

“You're wondering how I know,” Arthur guesses.

“I'm just wondering whether you'd prefer lager or ale,” Isolde tells him, taking a few steps backwards towards the bar.

“It's because the archaeologists would have been in place long ago,” says Arthur, calling after Isolde, who's distancing herself from the table to reach the counter. “So was it another journalist, like me?”

Isolde doesn't say. She brings him back a pint of ale, one of cider for her, and refuses to answer any questions pertaining to her customers. On the other hand, she's quick to make arrangements for their departure, telling him to be punctual, and giving him instructions to help him “survive” the passage over. “Really, bring something for sea sickness.”

“I was never seasick in my life,” Arthur says.

To which Isolde, replies, “Believe me, you will be.”

Isolde is wrong, though not entirely so. Arthur isn't seasick. But only because he's smart enough not to touch any food and to drink a bare minimum. He also keeps to his tiny cabin, huddled on his berth with his laptop open. Not that there's any internet connection so far out at sea but re-reading his documentation regarding the finding of the vessel helps him have the data carefully ordered in his mind. Not going on deck also helps as far as not getting sick goes.

The voyage over lasts sixteen hours, two more than promised because of the weather and having to change course to avoid the worst of it. But at last Isolde radios the St Kilda Ranger for permission to dock. 

The Ranger hums and hems. “It's supply day. Come back Sunday.”

Arthur hasn't got funds to finance another costly trip to St Kilda. Isolde is a great captain and brought them in sight of the island despite the storm hitting the area. But the compensation she asks for amounts to rapine. “Tell him it's important. I've got an agreement with the expedition leader.”

Isolde repeats his words. For a while it's touch and go as the ranger doesn't want them to disembark because, he maintains, they'll disrupt the delivery service. They only have a few docking berths apparently. But at last he caves in and says, “You can use the jetty in Hirta but the boat can't stay.”

Arthur shares a look with Isolde. Obeying the order means that he's going to be stranded on St Kilda for a few days. St Kilda is basically a rock in the ocean, nothing much on offer. He'd rather be in and out, but the story comes first. Besides, he can use those few days to the best advantage, i.e., to find out all there is to uncover. Arthur has a hunch that tells him it's a lot. “Say that's okay,” he tells Isolde. 

Isolde passes the message on and they're allowed a drop off berth. As Isolde prepares to enter port, Arthur radios Professor Kiley 'Kilgharrah' McCauley from Glasgow University, telling him he'll be on site as soon as he can get there.

“Reaching the site isn't that straightforward for a newcomer, I'll send you someone.”

The someone Professor Macaulay sends him is a lanky young man who's a few years younger than Arthur. He shakes Arthur's hand firmly even as he hides his face in the collar of his thermal jacket, but is otherwise helpful and nice. “I'm Merlin, I'm to take you to the camp,” he says, over the roaring wind.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Arthur says loudly, following Merlin to a battered Jeep. 

Merlin doesn't say anything to him. He only climbs into the Jeep and waits for Arthur to do the same. 

The road to Hirta is just a snaking trail surrounded by greenery rolling into more wind battered vegetation. The sky is low and the wind buffets the car's window and threatens to drive the car off track. Merlin is a steady driver though.

“So how long have you been on this island?” Arthur asks, knowing that hired dogsbodies like Merlin are more likely than their bosses to drop interesting info without being aware of doing so. 

“A few weeks,” Merlin says, eyes carefully on the road.

Arthur makes a few calculations. The first time he was contacted by Macaulay it was late summer. The expedition has been going on a while. This means Merlin was probably the one Isolde ferried. “Why so late into the game?”

“It's a job, isn't it?” Merlin says, pushing the Jeep onto a track road skirting the old Hirta village. 

“In a remote island, not much to do once you're off duty,” Arthur says, bracing himself when Merlin drives over a bump. “Is the pay that good?”

“It's okay,” Merlin says, shutting off the car once they've made it to camp. Before exiting he leans over Arthur to get at the glove box, from which he fishes a pair of gloves he puts on. “And there's bonuses thrown in.”

Because of the current proximity, Arthur notices for the first time the fact that Merlin has very pretty features: his cheekbones are sharp in a way Arthur finds gives character to his face; his lashes are sooty and long, and his eyes are of a blue that is like this island's sky. “I see,” he says, forgetting what question he wanted to ask Merlin next.

He has no chance to ask it either. With his gloves now firmly on, Merlin gets out of the Jeep, takes Arthur's scant baggage out of the boot, and trundles up the incline and towards the set of stone houses that used to be the village.

Merlin opens one door with his foot and deposits Arthur's things on a camp bed. “There's no electricity 'cos the island was evacuated in—”

“1930, I know,” Arthur says.

“Yeah, but there's a generator, so you can have some light.” Merlin illustrates this point by turning on a lamp connected to the generator. “I'd be thrifty when you use it. Same goes for warm water. You can heat some but I wouldn't use it all. You shouldn't wander off at night either.” Merlin hangs his head and smiles, shaking his head as if he's sharing an outrageous joke. “It's fucking cold out there.”

Arthur smiles a challenging smile. If Merlin thinks the cold is going to stop him, he's got another thing coming. “Well, duty first. Could you take me to the professor?”

“I thought you would have wanted to unwind first,” Merlin says, giving the bed a look that's as much as saying, 'look how comfortable it is'. He probably just wants to fuck off doing his own shit.

“No,” Arthur says, rubbing his hands together to show Merlin how determined he is to do just that. “I want to talk to Professor Macauley.” 

Without any further remonstration, Merlin leads him to the construction that houses the temp Research Centre. It's another one of those old stone huts that were once inhabited by the last occupants of the island. This one though is bigger and has been rigged to support the activities of the group of researchers currently occupying it.

Three generators, laptops, printers, a projector, as well as interactive maps of the island are strewn about the place. People buzz to and fro. And while most of these Arthur pegs down as university types, there's a few whose brisk demeanour marks them out as military. With a father in the army Arthur would know. What Arthur doesn't know is why they're there. Their presence tickles his curiosity. 

However he has no time to ask because Professor Macauley notices him and comes over to welcome him. As he does, Merlin retreats. Since Professor Macaulay basically takes over his welcome, Arthur has no time to thank Merlin for picking him up and safely delivering him to the base. But he reminds himself to do so later. After all, and in spite of his unsubtle attempt at getting Arthur off the scent, Merlin's been quite useful. In the meantime, he has a job to do.

After he's introduced to the team and shown around, he can finally sit Professor Macauley down and start his informal interview. Starting off the record has always helped tongues wag. “So why did you write me? I assume the vessel you found is not just any old artefact.”

“No,” Professor Macauley admits. “I contacted you because we're having all sorts of crazy readings from the egg.”

Arthur isn't exactly an expert so he feels the need to narrow down the problem area. “You said you couldn't date it?”

“Yes,” Professor Macauley agrees, showing him a pile of documents. 

Arthur scans the top one quickly. It seems to be the results of a carbon 14 test. It says the artefact is 200 hundred years old. Arthur flips the page and consults the results section again. This time the verdict is that the artefact is 23 years old. The next analysis yields an entirely different answer; according to it the find is 2,000 years old. Arthur blinks. “Perhaps you should use another lab.”

“Ark fragments were tested by ten different laboratories,” Professor Macauley explains, forking his glasses to have a look at the papers he gave Arthur. “This one—” He points to sheet number three “—comes from my university department in Glasgow. This one from London. Birmingham. Boston.” He turns a page. “Cape Town. Tokyo.”

“I think I understand,” Arthur says, wondering whether there's a scientific explanation for this he's not equipped to comprehend. “Maybe the sample you tested is... contaminated.”

“We tried different samples,” Professor Macauley pre-empts him. “And we tried other means of dating. More traditional ones.”

“I'm sorry but I'll have to ask,” says Arthur, needing to cover all his bases. “What kind of traditional means did you use?”

“Analysing the strata of soil we found it embedded in to see to which era it belongs to.”

“And what era does it belong to?”

“It seems to be recent,” says Professor Macauley cautiously. 

“So then that solves it,” Arthur says, seeing the story slipping from his grasp. “Maybe the samples were contaminated and it's just some modern object someone – some camper maybe – left here.”

“Then it would have to be a very special camper,” Macauley says in a very expressive voice.

Arthur scratches at his forehead. “I'm sorry. I think I'm lost.”

“The vessel looks as though it's made of wood,” says Macauley. “And at first we thought that's what it was. While wood isn't plentiful on the island there's lots on terra firma.”

“Well then—”

“It's not wood,” Macauley says with an eager smile, the smile of someone who's hit gold. “And it's not an artificial fibre mimicking wood. Actually it's nothing.”

Arthur splutters. “What do you mean 'nothing'?”

“We didn't just try and date the sample,” Professor Macauley explains with the tired patience Arthur remembers as being typical of academics. “We tried to establish what type of wood it was...”

“And it wasn't wood, you said,” Arthur pre-empts the professor to get down to business. He's got that part down anyway.

“Nor was it any material known to man.”

Arthur will need to have that explained again. “I beg your pardon...”

 

***** 

 

Merlin rolls in his bunk, listening to the wind howl. When the moon's high up enough, Merlin sits up in bed. He throws a look to the right and one to the left. The guys he shares shelter B with are all safely asleep. So Merlin slips out of bed, pulls on trousers, an extra jumper and his puffy jacket, grabs a torch and makes it out of the shelter. 

The trek to the site takes him more than forty minutes because he's got to proceed in the dark – torches only do so much – and because the ground is uneven. That winds him. But he gets there all the same, even without a map.

There's something about the site that calls to him like a siren. It plays to his consciousness in a way he's never felt before. He doesn't even have to look to be reminded of where to find the cave. He just skids down a dip in the ground and enters it.

It's here that the torch comes in handy, throwing light over the rock face. It highlights the jagged surface, the game of shadows almost forming surreal, threatening shapes that make Merlin take a step back in fear. 'Don't be an idiot', he tells himself. 'It's just rock and the play of lighting.' 

With his heart still thumping fast despite all attempts at being rational, he advances deep within the bowels of the cave. It's there that he sees it. It's not the first time that he does and like every time the artefact whispers to him in enticing, gripping tones. 

They raise goose flesh on his skin. They sound like waves lapping at his ears, or stifled voices he can't quite catch.

Unlike all the times he's been here though, he has a chance to approach the artefact without anyone stopping him. At night there are no team members, no security, and no military. Knowing this, he takes a tentative step forward, then another. He's face to face with the object Professor 'Kilgharrah' calls The Ark, a cradle-like vessel holding an item that looks like a giant egg, when he hears it call him.

Merlin staggers back, the voices resounding clear in his head this time. They're in a language that's not his, but that he understands at some level all the same. The voices tell him to touch the artefact. 

Merlin knows he shouldn't. 

Despite his magic urging him on, he has no proof he's connected to it. Besides, he hasn't been given permission to. This object could be worth a fortune. If he damaged it and were proven to have done so, he'd be in trouble.

Yet the ark makes his magic flare. It lures him on, little tinkling echoes clamouring in his head. 

Heart hammering in his chest Merlin touches the artefact. The moment he does a variety of images comes to his brain in quick, disorientating flashes. He sees a baby crying, a man putting the baby in the vessel, a battle, and a woman crying out.

With a gasp he jumps back.

He hasn't recovered his wits when a shape appears before him, looking as though it's see-through, blue light washing it pale. The figure is that of a man dressed in a style Merlin has never clapped eyes on before, not in the real world. The man has a tunic on, a cloak or cape thing draped over it, and chain mail underneath the last strata of clothing. In spite of the military garb he doesn't look aggressive. His eyes are sad and his stance is tired. 

“Who are you?” Merlin babbles, not sure if he's lost his reason or he's seeing what he's seeing.

“I am a vision of a person that was,” the man says, looking disconsolately at Merlin. “The vessel's power is channelling my consciousness.”

Merlin's mouth opens softly. When he recovers from the surprise that answer caused him, he says, “So you're a ghost?”

“I'm an echo,” the man says thoughtfully, clearly weighing his words. “I'm an echo of your father.”

Now Merlin knows that Gaius isn't his father. Gaius never lied to him about having adopted him in rather unusual circumstances. Even though he's never been specific, he's made no mystery of it. Still, an echo claiming to be his bio father seems like a bit much to him. There's far-fetched and then there's this. “You can't be.”

“But I am,” the apparition tells him. “My name is Balinor and I'm a dragonlord from Drakonia.”

“You're a what from where?”

“I'm a dragonlord,” Balinor tells him more slowly this time. “A race of men who tame – tamed dragons.”

Merlin can't help but repeat the word, “Dragons.”

“Yes, they're very large animals—”

Merlin's read his fairy tales, so he knows what dragons are. And what they're not. “Dragons aren't real,” he says, falling back on what he believes to be true. At least those are sane, trusty theories, not at all like the gibberish this man is so eager to put forth.

“Perhaps in this world,” Balinor says, “but in mine they were very real. For millennia they were at the basis of our civilisation, at the heart of our very ecosystem.”

Merlin is combating the notion he's finally gone crazy. “How is that even possible?”

“Their hearts,” Balinor explains, causing Merlin to see a vision of a giant pulsing heart, “were tied to the heart of the planet. As long as dragons lived our planet would prosper.”

“Something tells me that it didn't.”

“No,” Balinor continues in a sombre tone. To illustrate his point he summons a sphere in the palm of his hand. It looks pretty much like a planet. “As I said, dragonlords learnt how to tame dragons. The bond we shared went so deep it was possible if not, at first, easy to establish a connection.”

“I guess that wasn't a good thing,” Merlin hazards as he watches the pulsating heart of the planet throb more slowly.

“It wasn't,” Balinor says, closing his palm when the planet's heart stills. “Dragons live for centuries, millennia often times. At first dragonlords were happy to command one until they died. They were content with the wisdom the dragons shared, but then—”

“They weren't anymore,” Merlin guesses. It's not difficult to.

“No, they weren't. They learnt how to transfer some of the life powers of the dragons to themselves.”

“And the dragons died.” Merlin can see visions of death in his mind's eye, hear the death lament of the dragons. He visualises the poor creatures lifting their heads and sighing out their last breath. He's not sure whether he's imagining things or Balinor's making him see what he wants to. Merlin's heart constricts anyway. “Slowly, one by one.”

“Yes,” Balinor tells him. “And since their presence was vital to Drakonia, the planet couldn't sustain the dearth of dragons. Their deaths led to its destruction.”

“I don't think I understand most of this,” Merlin says as a hundred different questions spring to his mind. “How—”

“There's nothing to understand, unfortunately,” Balinor says, with a frown that looks expressive of regret and anger. “We doomed our own planet. By the time your mother got pregnant with you, there was no more hope left for us.”

Merlin's heart stops beating for a moment, then reprises its rhythm again. “So you, what, sent me away?”

“Yes. Because there was no hope for you,” Balinor says, reaching an arm out to him that doesn't feel like a touch at all, because, of course, Balinor's an echo. “If you'd stayed on Drakonia, you would have died with us.”

A whimper escapes Merlin. He knows what that 'us' entails, his father and his mother. At the thought of the loss he's experienced before he even knew it, his insides shrivel up. He's not sure whether this is what mourning feels like, but he's certain he's been hollowed out in a second flat. “So you sent me away of your own free will?”

“Yes, thanks to a vessel the druid tribes built.” Balinor's eyes fall on the artefact half the archaeological community of Great Britain is trying to explain the origins of. “But we didn't send you out alone.”

Merlin gasps. Maybe, maybe he's not as alone as he'd thought. “Do I have a sibling?”

Balinor shakes his head. “No, not as such. Our last hope went with you: the last dragon egg.”

Merlin flicks a look at the ovoid shape cradled by the vessel. Now that he thinks of it, it could definitely be an egg. “A dragon,” he breathes out, having a hard time picturing it. 

Balinor turns to look at it too, a soft look in his eyes. “Yes, it's alive and biding its time.”

“Time for what?”

“For it to be born,” Balinor says, showing him images of dragon births; they play across the cave like a film made of shadows.

Merlin has nothing more intelligent to say than, “Oh.”

“And this is the important part, Merlin,” Balinor says, his words slow and careful. “It's up to you to call it to life.”

Merlin's brain completely shuts down. “Up to who? I what!”

“When the time comes, you'll know,” Balinor tells him with a severe arch of his eyebrow. “You'll be the new dragon's dragonlord.”

“A dragon, here on earth?” Merlin says, really unable to imagine such a thing happening, let alone him mastering it.

“On earth, yes, or elsewhere.” Balinor spreads a hand out to indicate other planets he defines as elsewhere. “What counts is that Dragonlords and dragons can live again and it's up to you to make it come true. It's your destiny.”

Merlin processes the fact that he's this man's son and an alien, that dragons once existed on another planet and that he's supposed to do something about their continued survival on this one. He has so many questions, his head is hurting, but he settles on one. “And the magic? What's up with the magic?”

As though he doesn't understand, Balinor frowns. “Magic?”

“Yes, my powers,” Merlin explains, opening his hand to let a butterfly that wasn't there before fly free. “Are they a Drakonian feature?”

“No, not really” Balinor answers thoughtfully. “I never could do anything that could be construed as magic. I only had a bond with my Dragon.” Balinor shakes his head reflectively. “No, I think this magic of yours is something that comes from within you. It's your Drakonian body adapting to earth's environment. Earth has enhanced your dragonlord powers.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, preparing the next question. He's on the brink of spitting it out when he hears a powerful roar. His blood curdling in his veins, he asks, “What's that?”

“I think that's a Questing Beast,” Balinor reveals, his eyes wide open in surprise, even though he can put a name to the animal producing that infernal sound. “It's set to guard the vessel from any non Drakonian interference.”

The first thought that strikes Merlin is that his nightly expedition has been discovered. The second one, prompted by the ground shaking, is that he's got to save whoever has run into this Questing Beast.

 

***** 

 

The creature rears its head and bellows at him, showing a set of teeth so long Arthur has no doubt they'll be lethal.

To avoid the creature, Arthur falls back, eyes skittering across the cave floor in search of a weapon. With mounting terror he realises there's none. 

The creature gives out a primal growl that's so loud in pitch Arthur's blood curdles.

 _Something, do something_ , Arthur thinks, thoughts getting confused as the monster lumbers forward.

To avoid its clutches, Arthur hurls himself sideways, grabs some rocks and lobs them at the monster in rapid succession. These aren't proper weapons but Arthur's aim is as true as it was when he was a child. He hits the creature in the belly and the eyes.

The creature hisses, spitting hot saliva. 

When the creature lunges, Arthur is still searching around for more rocks to use as missiles. Since there's no more time for that, he dives sideways but feels the sharp column of teeth sink into his shoulder and tear at his muscles. 

The burn is intense and for a few terrifying seconds he blacks out. Then pain blooms but not as sharp as before. He gulps in air. In an attempt to twist free he pushes his weight to the side, wrenching free of the teeth he's impaled on. Blood gushes warm on his shoulder, trickling down it.

The loss of blood is dizzying but Arthur makes himself move. If he stops, he realises, he's pretty much dead. Fear is gnawing at his insides, but he doesn't let it get the better of him. Think of the objective, he tells himself, as if this is journalism and survival the next scoop. Filled with new intent, he grabs a rock, turns on his back, and using his good arm, stabs the creature in the neck.

Its blood rains down on him, trickling onto his throat, staining his mouth, unpleasantly hot and sticky. Its stench fills his nostrils and turns his stomach, bile rising till he tastes it on his tongue.

Yet the attack has bought him time. The creature is shaking its head from side to side, releasing a wail of pain. Arthur knows he isn't out of danger, that he hasn't impaired the monster and he's a long way from killing it. 

The creature is momentarily distracted by the pain it feels but that doesn't mean it won't renew its efforts to kill Arthur.

And Arthur gets weaker by the second, his limbs heavy, his thoughts swimming, his heartbeat slowing in his chest. Instead of moving Arthur feels so sluggish he concentrates on his heart decelerating – thump, ta-thump, thump.

When the monster hisses, dripping burning spit on top of him, Arthur can't even summon any will to wriggle away. He only blinks, his vision blurring, doubling till there's two of everything. Two of the monster's head, two of its forepaws, two ceilings.

Letting out a roar, the monster goes for Arthur's throat. The smell from its maw sneaks up Arthur's nostrils, gagging him. Before his eyes roll back in his head Arthur has time to think that he's done and then to hear a voice shout, “No.”

Then his vision darkens and there's nothing.

When he opens his eyes again, there's no trace of the monster. Merlin is straddling him. He must have ripped Arthur's shirt open, because his hand now lies on Arthur's wound, no interfering garment in between, only the warmth of Merlin's palm seeping into Arthur's skin. His eyes glow gold. 

“What—” Arthur tries to sit up, but can't quite, his body out of control, his shoulder sending out waves of pain. “What are you doing—”

“Shh, calm down,” Merlin tells him, pressing him back down. His hand is firm but gentle, his touch soothing. “I'm trying to fix you.”

Arthur pants, sweat running into his eyes and down the sides of his face. “How, what the hell.”

“Hush, you're going to be well. I promise you.”

As Merlin's eyes swirl even more fiercely amber, Arthur does indeed start to feel as though the rippling ache in his shoulder is diminishing. He can move, is more in control of his limbs, and his thoughts churn faster. As the grip agony had on him slackens, he wonders how this is at all possible.

Merlin's eyes are an unnatural colour, his hands are draining him of pain and his wound is knitting, the pain giving way to a tickling sensation. There's enough going on here to tell him that the real journalistic scoop is Merlin, not the vessel.

“What are you?” Arthur asks, for once an uncalculated question making it out of his mouth. 

Warmth transfers from Merlin's hand to Arthur's chest. It's a simmer that grows and travels down his spine. It's a very pleasant sensation Arthur would love to focus on if he only wasn't trying to get an answer from Merlin. “This is impossible,” Arthur says, sitting up enough to look at his healed shoulder. 

Merlin sinks back on his haunches and Arthur wonders if he's about to have the most recent happenings explained to him. But then Merlin puts a hand to his forehead and says, “I'm sorry.”

The next thing Arthur registers is the sun in his eyes. Blinking, he focuses on the interior of his shelter. He's in bed as though he never went on a night excursion the night prior. There's no Merlin around, no burnished yellow eyes to guide him through the pain.

If it wasn't for the tattered shirt he still has on, he'd believe the night before a nightmare. But the shirt, the blood on it, remind him that everything occurred just as he remembers. There's only one element missing to solve the puzzle. And that's Merlin.

Needing to pin Merlin down and extract the truth from him, Arthur jumps out of bed and into the shower. Despite the caked blood he has to sponge off, he washes in record time and joins the university team back on the main camp. When he sees one of the workers, a Ph.D. student working for Professor Macauley, Arthur is quick to ask about Merlin.

“I'm sorry,” the girl says, looking around the site. “I haven't seen him all morning. Maybe he's driving someone around? Ask Dr Khan, he's the one assigning weekly jobs.”

Arthur finds Doctor Khan and questions him about Merlin's whereabouts; Dr Khan in turns sends him to Professor Macauley. Arthur can do nothing but go and check with him. Like the others, Macauley doesn't know where Merlin is. “Why? You need something from him?”

“No,” Arthur says, not hinting to the previous night's goings on since he's not ready to share his hunch. “Just needed a word.”

“You might try the canteen,” Professor Macauley tells him. “Boy's always hungry.”

Arthur trudges all the way to the canteen but doesn't find Merlin there either. His heart sinks, a sixth sense telling him Merlin's vacated the premises entirely. Still, he makes himself search the area before admitting defeat. It's dusk and he's found no trace of Merlin anywhere – nor met anyone who's run into him today – when Arthur lets himself come to the only available conclusion. Merlin has slipped the net.

“I'll find you yet,” he vows to St Kilda's roaring sea.

 

***** 

 

Merlin jumps off the boat, crosses the jetty and jogs up towards the road. When he reaches it, he slows down and starts walking at a more sedate pace. As the rain starts, he pulls his hoodie up and ducks his head.

He's a mile along the winding road when he hears an engine's rumble. He turns. It's the milkman's van about to overtake him.

Seeing this, Merlin pulls down his hoodie and lifts a thumb.

The van stops. The driver rolls down the window and Valiant pokes his head out. “Emrys, is that you?”

“Yeah.” Merlin puts his hands back in his jeans pockets and trots up to the van. “It's me...”

“You've been away a long time.” Valiant taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you back for good?”

“No, I--” Merlin dances on the balls of his feet. “I just wanted to see Gaius and Alice.”

“Want a lift?” Valiant's voice is dry and deadpan but the offer seems genuine.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, looking up at the sky looming low, threatening a storm. “Yeah.”

“Then mount.”

Valiant's good on his word. He takes the fastest route to Merlin's native village and drops him before Gaius' house. “Thanks,” Merlin says, addressing Valiant's profile since Valiant won't turn to be thanked. “I appreciate it.”

Valiant mumbles something that could have been 'you're welcome' though Merlin's not sure. When Merlin's hopped off the rusty van, he drives off, holding a hand aloft in goodbye. 

Merlin smiles. Back in the day he would never have thought Valiant would be one to do him a good turn but he's happy to find things have changed.

He sighs and ducks his head.

If change is fully welcome in Valiant's case, it's not in others.

With a sigh, he faces the house and rings the doorbell. The longer it takes for Gaius to open the door, the harder Merlin's heart thumps in his chest. 

At last Gaius' swings the door wide. “My boy,” he says when he sees him. “I wasn't expecting you.”

Merlin throws himself in Gaius' arms and sobs.

It's only when Merlin's calmed down, been sat in the lounge with a warm cup of tea that Gaius asks him what's happened.

“I met my father,” Merlin says, not really knowing how to define the experience he went through.

Gaius' eyebrow shoots up. “Merlin...”

“No,” Merlin says, pulling a hand up. “I know what I'm talking about.”

“Isn't that a little improbable?” Gaius asks... “I did find you in such odd circumstances.”

“I know.” Merlin hangs his head and compresses his lips. “And I know you're going to find this even stranger but I think my bio dad is an...” Merlin can't really bring himself to say it.

Gaius, though, is having none of his reticence. “He's what, Merlin?” he asks kindly, but with his eyebrow still arched.

“He's an alien,” Merlin squawks. “From a planet called Drakonia and there's a potentially live dragon egg he wants me to hatch...” Merlin fires that as quickly as he can. It's so absurd he just needs to have that out now, like tearing a particularly sticky plaster off. “And then he vanished into thin air.”

Gaius puts his own tea-cup down on the tea table and places his hand on Merlin's knee. “I believe you.”

Merlin's breath whooshes out of him in relief. “I thought you'd think I was on drugs.”

“I know about your powers, remember?” Gaius tells him with very mild reproof. “Anything else isn't going to be any more surprising than that.”

“So you don't think I've gone crazy?” Merlin probes, since that was his number one fear in coming here.

“No.” Gaius shakes his head and seeks his eyes; his shine with kindliness. “I most definitely don't.”

“And you don't think that...” Merlin lowers his head and twiddles his thumbs nervously. “You don't think that makes me a monster?”

Gaius turns Merlin's face in his hands, a firm grip on his chin. “No, Merlin. I think that makes you what you've always been. A wonder.”

“I don't want to be a freakish wonder.” Merlin bites his lip, eyes getting wetter and wetter by the second. “I want to be normal.”

“Is that what you truly want?” Gaius probes with a gentle but knowing tone.

Even as he sniffles, Merlin's eyes narrow. “I—” He loves his magic. He's happy with the feats it allows him to perform. It connects him to nature in a way that makes him feel it in his bones and has repeatedly put him in a position to help his friends. So no he doesn't want his magic gone. “No, I guess not. I just don't want people to hate me.”

Gaius hugs him again as he did on the doorstep. “Nobody who really knows you will ever hate you.”

Merlin lets himself bask in Gaius' fatherly embrace for a few long moments. He allows the words to sink into his heart and makes himself hope they'll hold true. When he's sufficiently buoyed, he tackles the other subject that's been on his mind since leaving St Kilda. “There's another slight problem.”

With a long suffering sigh, Gaius asks, “And what may that be, Merlin?”

“Somebody might know about me,” Merlin says so quickly his words tangle one on top of the other. “About my healing powers at the very least.”

 

**** 

 

“I need to talk to him,” Arthur says, bypassing Mary's desk and making directly for Aglain's door. 

“You can't!” Mary puts down the phone and swivels in her chair. “He's busy.”

“I know for a fact he doesn't have any meetings and this is very important.”

“Arthur.” Mary scowls darkly at him but doesn't say anything more than that. 

Arthur just smiles his most charming smile, gets Mary to back down, and braves Aglain's office.

When Arthur enters, Aglain is at his desktop, glaring at the screen. “Arthur,” he says, holding a finger up, “I'm still not over you leaving London without permission.”

Even though Aglain's not the type to go off at him and chew his head off, Arthur feels the reproof all the same. With Aglain, a calm tone and a remark go a long way to achieve the same effect. “I had a story.”

“A story,” Aglain asks, sending his monitor to sleep, and sweeping his eyes round to look questioningly at Arthur. “Would this story be the one about the undateable artefact?”

“I'll personally kick Gwaine in the balls, the snitch,” Arthur says, fisting his hands.

“Well, you knew I would have asked.” 

Arthur takes a step forward. “I do think there's a story, Aglain. And I want permission to pursue it.”

“What story?” Aglain tips an eyebrow at him, his hands patiently steepled.

Arthur sinks in the seat opposite Aglain's. “It's more than an artefact,” Arthur says, knowing Aglain will guess what he refers to. “There's a man...”

Aglain squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Arthur.”

“Aglain,” Arthur begins again, “I was bitten by a horrid creature. I was losing tons of blood and he healed me with his touch.”

“Pardon the question,” Aglain says, folding his hands together. “But were you on drugs at the time, any kind of recreational substance?”

“I assure you I was not.” Then to convince Aglain, he loosens his tie, unbuttons his shirt and shows his boss the puncture marks on his shoulders. “These were fang tears.”

“Arthur, it could have been an insect,” Aglain tells him, sceptically studying the marks on Arthur's shoulder. “I'm not sending you chasing fairy tales on the basis of a mosquito bite.”

“Aglain, please,” Arthur pleads, not insisting on the subject of the marks. They're much less visible than they were when they were fresh. Harping on them would be sheer stupidity when he can approach this another way. “This is the story of the century. That man is not like any other.”

“I'm sorry.” Aglain shakes his head. “I can't assign you to this story when you're better placed following other ones. Like this election story,” Aglain says, putting a recorder on the table and playing the tape.

Arthur stops listening when he realises Aglain is replaying an interview of which the mayor is subject. It's interesting and he guesses a good scoop could be had out of some of the non-answers if one were to dig deeply. Merlin's story is ten times more fascinating. Both the mysteries connected to the man and the kind of person he is – secretive, captivating, deadpan, humorous – are solid material for an interview. He can't abandon his trail when it's hot. “I'll have something on that election story before the month is out. But I won't give up on mine. I'm pursuing this.” He taps his index finger on the table and is out of his chair in the matter of a few seconds.

“Arthur,” Aglain's voice reaches him before he can leave the boss' sanctum. “You're going out on a limb. I respect you and your talent for unprecedented stories, but I want you to know I don't support this.”

“I realise.” Arthur grabs the handle tight. “But I can't stop now that I'm positive there's something to my story.”

“Arthur.” A sigh shakes Aglain's body. “I'm warning you.”

“I must shed light on Merlin's story,” says Arthur, wondering where Merlin is, what he's doing, and more importantly, what he is.

“Do as you must,” Aglain says with a sigh.

And with that Arthur's search truly begins.

The search for Merlin starts where it left off. Arthur interviews the St Kilda team for any titbits about Merlin they may remember and that might help Arthur locate him. He doesn't learn much. They tell him that before disappearing Merlin was always kind and good humoured, ready to joke around with all team members. But when really put to the question all Arthur's witnesses can do is realise that they don't actually know the first thing about Merlin, not where he lives, not where he's from, nor where he's studied, nothing at all.

“I have the contract he signed,” Professor Macauley told him. “But there's nothing much in it. He didn't give us an address.”

“But,” the Ph.D. girl Arthur met once before tells him, “he did say something about his home town. He said he was an islander and used to weather like St Kilda's.”

That's the starting point of Arthur's investigation. He uses the information to check against school records. It's public info and easily obtainable. A Merlin Emrys seems to have attended Castlebay School in Castlebay, Barra and to be have been at one time resident on the same isle. Arthur speed dials his PA. “George, book me a plane to Barra, Scotland.”

“Barra, sir?” George asks in a tone of surprise. “It apparently only has a landing strip on the beach.”

“That's more than sufficient.”

On the island, Arthur interviews those students that are the same age as Merlin. There's just one secondary school in Castlebay and it's not as if those pupils born in the same year as Emrys are likely to have already forgotten him. Even if they didn't know him well, they must have heard of him. When questioned though, they all act as though they've lost all memory of him. 

A girl called Freya admits to Merlin having been in her English class, but she says she can't remember him well and that she doesn't know where he is. The same goes for a guy called Valiant even though his name is connected to Emrys' in a remarkable fashion. Arthur has unearthed a four year old article mentioning a school trip gone wrong and a London Eye accident. Valiant West was saved by one Merlin Emrys back in the day, only to have erased all memory of him. “Yes, well, it's been a long time,” Valiant tells him as he loads his van.

“The man saved your life,” Arthur tells him, almost wanting to stomp in frustration. “It seems to me you should remember him.”

“Told you, man,” Valiant says, placing a milk crate on top of the other. “It's been a few years. You just forget that kind of stuff.”

“Hardly so completely.”

Valiant rounds on him and shows him his fist. “I think you've asked one question too many, posho, don't you?”

Given the fact that he's an investigative journalist bound to piss people off, Arthur has taken a few self defence classes. Right about now his mind goes to ways he could parry that fist. He's sure he can overpower Valiant if he puts his mind to it. But then he realises that that attitude isn't going to get him far. Even if he's victorious, that wouldn't get him the information he wants. “All right, okay,” he says, holding hands that are still holding a recorder up “I won't ask any more questions. But if you happen to meet Emrys—”

“I won't.”

“If you should see him, tell him I'm grateful and that I'm looking for him,” Arthur tells him, ploughing over any further denials on Valiant's part.

“Grateful?” Valiant asks with a frown so big it corrugates his entire forehead. “What for?”

Arthur lifts his shoulders. “Same thing as you — saving my life.”

“He saved your life?”

“He seems to do that a lot, doesn't he?” Arthur says, extending his visiting card to Valiant. “That's the kind of thing you want to say thank you in person for, don't you think?”

Valiant doesn't accept his card, but says, “You're a journo though.”

Arthur can't deny that, nor can he deny the fact that he's after a story. “We're still human beings, aren't we?”

Valiant takes the card.

Arthur leaves before he's sure he's pocketed it. He can't tempt fortune all that much and lingering wouldn't be constructive. Still, the man has it. That must mean something.

 

**** 

 

Merlin finds Arthur Pendragon sitting at a remote table in Castlebay library. It's odd that he should be there. Merlin associates this place with cramming sessions and his fear of A levels. This spot certainly doesn't bring to mind journalists who've nearly died on his hands.

But Arthur is here and Merlin knows why; there's no way he hasn't sussed out part of Merlin's secret after he saw Merlin's eyes go gold and his wound heal itself on the heels of Merlin's touch.

With a swallow Merlin weaves through the tables and reaches Pendragon's. The man's reading a print out of what looks like an old newspaper article, so Merlin has to clear his throat to get his attention.

When Arthur sees him his eyes go round. “I wasn't banking on you coming.”

Merlin looks the other way. “You thought I'd what, flee?” Merlin wants to see Arthur's reaction so he can gauge what kind of man he is, “And leave my friends and family in the lurch?”

Arthur pushes a chair out with his foot, inviting Merlin to take a seat. “I hope you don't think I'd have harassed them?”

Merlin sits down, though he takes the very edge of his seat, so he can be out of there fast if he need be. “I don't know you, do I?”

Arthur sighs, passing a hand through his hair as though he's either embarrassed or nervous. Merlin doesn't know why he should be since he's the one with the winning hand. Merlin had imagined he'd be crowing by now. “No, you're right. You don't. And I understand your... circumspection but I don't intend to hurt your family.”

“Good,” Merlin says, fists balled. “Because I won't let you.”

“No need to go defensive,” Pendragon tells him, a hand held up. His voice is soothing. “I just need to understand.”

“So you can go to the press with my life story?”

Arthur lowers his gaze, his lower lip sticking out in a pout. “I can't say that isn't what I set out to do. I work for _The Telegraph_ , after all. But I'd love to be able to convince you to tell me your story of your own free will. I don't want to do this piece without you.”

“I won't help,” Merlin says, making sure his tone is final and that Arthur gets it.

“Merlin—” Arthur lets out a breath, his body sagging with it. “I don't know the ins and outs of your story, but sometimes sharing a secret with the world can give you the freedom you must be hankering for.”

Merlin shakes his head from side to side. “Not in my case. That's not what's gonna happen. I don't want to share and I don't want you come after me.”

“All right,” Arthur tells him, offering him his hand to shake. “Then I won't release your story to the press.”

Merlin arches an eyebrow. “It can't be so easy, now, can it?”

Arthur drops his hand but a smile plays on his lips; it's a genial one, not toothy but not picture perfect either. It's very honest looking and Merlin suddenly feels like he wants to trust this man. “It can. I promise I won't go to the press with your story.” Arthur drops the hand Merlin's not shaken. “But I need to know. I'm going crazy and I need you to tell me the truth.”

Merlin frowns deeply. “So you can run to the press, after all.”

Arthur throws his head back and laughs. The sound of his laughter is too loud for a library and as a journalist, who must have frequented lots of those, Arthur should know to behave better. But he is quite free with his reaction in spite of all that.

Merlin wants to be ticked off at him but can't help admiring Arthur's full bodied response. There's something so open about it – him – that Merlin almost trusts him. Oddly, Merlin wants to believe that Arthur could be his friend. 

“No, just so I know I'm not going crazy.” Arthur says once his laughter has settled. He looks serious now, collected. “I was dying, wasn't I?”

Merlin doesn't know what to do. If he admits to it, to having healed Arthur, then he's let the cat out of the bag. If he doesn't, this man will forever be in doubt as to what happened to him. That's not something Merlin would wish on anyone. “I—”

“Look,” Arthur says, packing up his stuff. “Let's talk somewhere else. I realise this place probably doesn't inspire confidence.” He smiles softly. “Come on, I'm buying you cake.”

Merlin's the one to chuckle this time. “Are you trying to bribe me with cake?”

Arthur tsks. “No, I'm treating you to something nice.” Arthur pauses, his face a picture of trust worthiness, softness. His features are set in such a soothing expression, Merlin almost wants to run his fingers along them. “Whatever happened in that cave, I am grateful. I wasn't lying to your friend Valiant when I said that.”

They end up having tea, cake and toasties at a local café that's not far from the jetty. The weather's abysmal but Arthur insists on eating outside as though it was high summer. He has to wear jacket and scarf to withstand the harshness of the climate, but shed his gloves to bite into the toastie. He seems happy and undeterred. He appears so pleased with the location, staring out to the sea and watching the locals promenade, that Merlin almost suspects him of having forgotten the reason they're here.

The fact that no question is forthcoming, no confrontation pending, makes Merlin relax and enjoy the moment for what it is. He's back home, a place that he feels he belongs to and has missed during his wanderings. Everything's quiet, just as it used to be – only better because there are no more school bullies to confront on a daily basis – and nobody's outed him yet. Besides, he's not quite used to going out with people, at least not since he left Barra behind. It's pleasant. It warms something in the pit of his stomach. 

He finds himself studying Arthur for foibles.

He notices that he uses brown sugar instead of white. That he eats the edge of his toastie before he attacks the centre where all the ham is. 

It's stupid but he smiles. 

Faced with a grinning man who oughtn't be so perky, Arthur tilts his head. “Did I do something funny?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, nothing funny, but—”

“But?” Arthur prompts him. 

“I thought you'd put me to the question.”

“I don't want to put you through the grinder,” Arthur tells him, setting his plate aside. “I do want to know, I won't hide that. But I'd love it if you could tell me the truth in your own time.”

“Well, in that case, let's have some more tea first.”

 

****

 

Merlin doesn't tell him on that first outing. Arthur supposes he could press but he doesn't want to. There's a little voice in his head telling him to be cautious, to tread carefully. He could probably use every trick of the trade he knows to get Merlin to fess up, but Merlin's ways are so guileless – he smiles too large smiles, like children, and his eyes are too free from shadows – for Arthur to be able to play him without his stomach knotting up in revulsion. So he tries to get to know Merlin's secret in the way that comes most natural to him: getting to understand the person behind it.

Upon Arthur's asking, Merlin shows him Barra. 

They've been at it all day long, trekking along less well known paths, till they get up the hills, when Merlin shows him a statue of Mary and Jesus.

The sight is funny to Arthur. Here, nature is at its rawest and there this statue sits, prim and cute and man-made, on top of a hill as if she wants the world to bow down to her.

“Our Lady of the Sea,” Merlin says, touching his fingers to the marble then looking out to the ocean.

The vista is everything that Arthur has always thought of as beautiful, a hill rolling out to sea, cobalt sky meeting churning waves. But Arthur can't say he's looking at it at all. He's taking in Merlin's profile instead, the sharp line of Merlin's nose and the gentler bow of his lips. They look pink and soft, as though they'd cushion the mouth of any person kissing Merlin. 

“You don't like it, do you?” Merlin asks, startling Arthur out of his thoughts.

“I do, I do,” Arthur hurries to say. “I—”

“Don't strain yourself,” Merlin says, not sounding as ticked off as he might at Arthur failing to express admiration for his native island. “It's an acquired taste.”

Before hearing Merlin's wistful tone, Arthur had wanted to say that he liked the view. Now his thoughts are being pushed in a new direction. “You love it here, don't you?”

Merlin's eyes shine with how much that is true. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Then why did you leave?” Arthur says, thinking of what he learnt about Merlin while researching him. “After you left Castlebay Community School you didn't come back again.”

Merlin doesn't seem to begrudge Arthur his knowledge of these factoids. He shrugs his shoulders and says, “I couldn't stay. An island as small as this, people were bound to notice something was off with me.”

“Someone did, though.” Based on the reactions of the people he interviewed, that's not a wild stab at a theory. “I'm guessing Will Foster, Freya Waters, and the milkman, Valiant.”

Merlin tips his head forward, so that his chin is hidden in the zipped up collar of his jumper. “Yeah, yeah... that was a lot of people. When school was over Gaius and Alice, they're my parents, advised me to take off, go somewhere people wouldn't know me.”

“And so you did,” Arthur says, not so much to sum things up, but to prompt Merlin to open up. He's not even after the story anymore, he doesn't think, he just feels this need to see Merlin smile light-heartedly, unencumbered by his secret. “That's why I found you working in St Kilda.”

“There's another reason for that...” Merlin says, meeting his eyes then turning his head away again.

“What sort of reason?” Arthur pushes, biting his lip in fear he has pried and way too much.

Merlin sits at the foot of the statue, knees bunched up to his chest, arms around them. At first Arthur thinks he's shut down but then he says, “The vessel.”

“The vessel?” Arthur is at a loss to understand until the truth dawns on him. “You mean the artefact?”

“Yep,” Merlin says, looking up at him, his shoulders bunched up so he appears smaller than he is. “I call it the vessel, well, because my dad did call it that first.”

“Gaius knows about it too?” Arthur asks, not understanding what Merlin's adoptive father, who's not left Barra, has got to do with an artefact that was found on St Kilda.

Merlin sighs and pats the ground next to him. Without hesitation, Arthur folds himself next to him, canting his head to better listen to Merlin. Merlin starts talking. He says that he's always had magic and that he found out who his father was in the cave where Arthur had the encounter with the venomous creature. Merlin calls it the Questing Beast. But that's not more outlandish than what Merlin reveals next. “I think I wasn't born on this planet,” he says in a tremulous tone. “I think I'm an alien...” he rushes out, all the breath going out of him when the last words are spoken. 

If this had come from anyone else but Merlin, Merlin with his bright smiles, engaging manner, and solemn mannerisms when it comes to his secret, Arthur wouldn't believe them. But not only has Arthur been healed by Merlin, he also believes Merlin is a good guy, one who wouldn't make up such a story. Neither is he crazy. No way.

“Like Mork from Ork?” Arthur bumps shoulders with Merlin, a smile itching at his lips.

“What are you talking about?” Merlin asks, two lines running along the length of his forehead.

“Never mind,” Arthur says, shifting closer to Merlin. “It's something from my childhood afternoons, watching re-runs on the telly when my father was too busy on missions.”

Merlin chuckles then more boisterous laughter takes over and Merlin's snorting. “I thought journalists would only love hard facts – none of that fantasy stuff, that they'd be so grounded in reality they'd never appreciate it.”

“I am. I'm good at chasing facts!” Arthur says, squaring his shoulders. “I'll have you know that I'm responsible for some major scoops.”

“Really?” Merlin's eyebrows waggle. “Okay, shoot then. What major stories are you responsible for breaking out?”

Arthur starts listing off the highlights of his career and it's only when he's halfway though that Merlin's body shakes with soft laughter. 

“You were yanking my chain, weren't you?”

“Who, me?” Merlin asks though his voice his still broken by laughter. “I wouldn't.”

“Mmm, I think you really would.”

Merlin starts upright then and Arthur chases after him, tackling him to the ground as though they were playing rugby. Merlin shoves him off of him and rolls them, so much so they end up down the side of the hill. They will probably sport a few bruises by tomorrow but Arthur can't help but hoot on the way down.

“Well, at least we got down the side of the hill fast.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Arthur, shielding his ribs with his palm. “We did achieve a fast descent.”

“We did,” Merlin says lightly, as though they haven't avalanched their way down. “And just in time.” He nods at the sky. “It's getting late.”

It's the first time that Arthur takes notice. Twilight is welling orange at horizon level, tinting everything a wonderful russet. This burnished vista is so breath-taking Arthur stops to take it in, uncaring about the weather change, until he thinks he'll remember the beauty of it for as long as he lives. When he's done he says, “I suppose I should head back to the inn. It's late enough. I wouldn't want to fall into a ditch in the dark.”

“I'd save you if you did,” Merlin says, and there's a promise quality to his words. 

Arthur doesn't say anything to that because he doesn't think there's anything that can be. Merlin sounded so earnest right then Arthur can't doubt him at all, but neither can he take him at face value without his heart becoming too involved. So he just picks himself up, gives himself a dust off, and mumbles, “Let's head back.”

They do make their way back to civilisation, regretfully leaving the wild of nature behind. Though Arthur's come back to base, namely the inn he sleeps at, he gets another promise from Merlin, and that is that they'll talk again.

“I do want you to understand,” Merlin says, seeing him to the door of his room. “Somehow, for some reason, I need you to.”

“I'll try to,” Arthur says, almost tempted to kiss Merlin on the cheek before they part. He goes for a handshake at last because this gesture seems more appropriate, then adds, “I'll try to,” hoping that's a bracing thought for Merlin.

 

**** 

 

Arthur wants to be shown round the island, so Merlin takes him. They hike; they explore caves. They take Gaius’ car and go cross country. Despite the fact the sea is churning, they even go fishing. When they get back to the boat, Arthur tells him, “It's freezing cold.”

“Yeah, I know, but you don't really know the island unless you've gone fishing.”

“Is that a commonly held opinion?” Arthur asks, his elocution more mumbled than usual, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

The gesture softens something inside Merlin. Perhaps it's the fact that Arthur looks smaller today, hunched in as he is, body presenting a minimum front to the storm, skin worked pale by the cold. When he first saw him Merlin thought of Arthur as a threat; now all Merlin is keen to do is protect the man. Perhaps it's because Arthur has shed his proper ways and eloquent wording. Whatever, Merlin feels the way he does and isn't looking forward to poking at it only for him to have to cull down those emotions.

He doesn't want to.

After making Arthur warmer with his magic, Merlin answers. “Yep, can't be a local if you don't do that. Look to Gaius. That's what he did before he retired.”

Colour returning to his face, Arthur hugs a Thermos to himself as he would if it were a teddy-bear, “That's how he found you. On St Kilda, right?”

Merlin focuses on the shifting horizon line. “Yeah, that's what he said. That he was stranded on St Kilda because of a storm. He lay anchor but decided it was unwise to sleep aboard, the sea was heaving so much. So he took a sleeping bag with him, a couple of blankets and made his way inland. That's how he ended up in the cave.”

“For shelter?”

“Yeah.” Merlin smiles, thinking back to the many times Gaius told him this very story. Merlin always asked for it when he was a kid, needing to be told that Gaius had chosen to take him home, chosen to take him in. “He says he heard me squalling, far more than that tempest out at sea.”

Arthur pours some of the coffee into a tin cup and gulps the contents down before speaking again. “So you made yourself heard. That's like you.”

“Yep,” said Merlin, warmed by Arthur's friendly tone, by this small acknowledgement they know each other. It makes him want to tell Arthur everything there is to share. “He says that's how he knew I was special.”

“I'd say, a baby surviving out alone and in a storm.”

“I was just lucky,” Merlin says, shrugging his shoulders. “I'm not invincible. And I was even less so when in my nappies.”

Arthur huffs softly. “Nice mental image there.”

“Hey, you wanted to know.”

“I did,” Arthur agrees. 

Merlin had thought Arthur would be pulling one more joke on him out of the vast reservoir of jibes he has at his disposal. But he doesn't. Instead, boat rocking under them, he gets to his feet and manoeuvres his body close to Merlin, sitting down next to him so they're shoulder to shoulder. The boat does rock but Merlin would take being plunged into the sea if it means he can feel Arthur's welcome weight close to his body. “Yeah, you did.”

Cup put down, Arthur slides down so he's half lying on the floor of the boat, back to the boat's bulk. “How did he find out about the magic though, aside from the whole baby in a storm thing?”

Merlin rolls onto his side so he's facing Arthur; they're sharing their breath in the spaces between their bodies this way. “I used my magic to float my toys to me when I was in my cot,” Merlin confides, feeling silly for sharing this story, his cheeks burning with how embarrassing this anecdote is. 

Arthur's derision though doesn't come. “You would. That was quite mischievous of you.”

“I was just a baby.”

Arthur turns his head to him, his eyes boring into Merlin. “Show me,” he says.

There's a pause during which Merlin wonders whether Arthur means Merlin should show him a baby picture of his but then he realises that he's a fool. “The magic,” Merlin says out loud and a little breathless. No one's ever asked him to show them his magic. Gaius and Alice know all his tricks, the way he would get out of tiding his room by way of magic, the way he'd use it to sneak home when he made it back past curfew. Freya and Will have known for a while but even so they've never asked to see it. Personally, Merlin thinks they love him but that the magic freaks them out. “You really want to see me do magic?” Merlin asks, probing, needing to be really sure Arthur wants to know this side of him, that he won't be put off.

“Why shouldn't I?” Arthur asks, as if Merlin's question is redundant.

“It doesn't... scare you?” Merlin wants Arthur to be really certain. He doesn't want him to run in the other direction. And that's what would happen if he saw Merlin's magic and wasn't ready for it. “You don't think it would be too much?”

“No,” Arthur says with a determined sparkle in his eyes. “Why would it be?”

“It's overwhelming,” Merlin warns him. He opens his palm and closes it. “And really, really alien. I mean, it figures now but people... they don't like it.”

“How many have you shown?” Arthur asks gently, resettling so he's closer still.

“Gaius, Alice...”

“Your parents,” Arthur says, dismissing them. “They don't count. They're the ones who changed your nappies. People who've seen your bare bum covered in poo never do.”

“Will and Freya” Merlin says, in a toneless chant. “And Valiant, though that was by accident.”

“The London Eye accident.”

“You researched me well,” Merlin says in a lowered voice. He truly hopes he's not just a story to Arthur.

“That is not what this is about,” Arthur tells him, guessing Merlin's fears, his voice full of reassurance. “This is about you sharing something if you feel like it.”

“Okay,” Merlin says, turning on his side like Arthur did “Look here.” He holds his palm out and concentrates on a trick that he considers safe and cute. He'd planned to show it to Freya when he was courting her back in secondary school. He ended up never doing it because it felt as though Freya, for all her loveliness, wasn't into sharing that part of Merlin. When he focuses, magic tickles his skin and courses through him with a gentle flow. A bright blue flame dances on the palm of his hand. “There,” Merlin says, pride swelling his heart when he takes in Arthur's awed look.

Arthur's face washed in blue light, but it glows with wonder more than by virtue of Merlin's preternatural trick. When the light sphere cradled in Merlin's palm bounces, Arthur touches it with the tips of his fingers. “It's not like static,” he says, eyes widening even more.

“That's because it's not.” Merlin starts that off with a 'duh' tone but he can't keep it up in the face of Arthur's honest bedazzlement. “It's magic.”

“It's—” Arthur's lips twitch while he pets Merlin's light sphere. “Cool.”

“Cool, very basic adjective for someone who writes for a living.”

“Hey.” Arthur kicks at his foot, tangling their legs. “I was being spontaneous.”

“So my magic's cool?” Merlin knows he's fishing but he wants to hear his magic praised. He's hunkering for it, a floating sensation taking abode in his stomach, as though his insides are unfettered, flying free.

Arthur shoves at him, pushing him back so gently Merlin knows it's in jest. “No, I thought it was crap; that was why I said it was cool.”

Merlin shoves back. “Prat.”

“Idiot.”

Waves rock against the boat in a rhythm so ageless and natural it's like no sound at all.

“Show me something else,” Arthur's says after a while, eyes dancing, his hand cupping the back of Merlin like a cradle, not touching, not grazing, just softly there.

Merlin hums softly, as though he's thinking about it. The truth is the decision's already taken. They're on a boat after all. “Sit up,” Merlin says, making shooing motions with his hand.

“Why?” Arthur's eyes narrow with humour. “You planning to throw me overboard now that I know?”

Merlin pretends to glare and goes to his knees, positioning himself so that he's looking out to sea.

Arthur imitates him, hands on the side deck's edge. “So what's the next trick out of your hat?”

“Shut up and look,” Merlin says, puffing breath out as though he's annoyed even though he isn't, not at all. Eyes closed, Merlin calls his magic to him, envisioning what he wants to happen.

When he looks next, the water around him is sparkling silver, as if a rainfall of quicksilver was coating the lapping ripples. A shimmery veil is coating this stretch of coast till waves meet shore.

“This looks so...”

“Creepy?” Merlin pre-empts Arthur. It is something unearthly after all. 

“I was going to say like something out of a fairy tale,” Arthur corrects him, body shifting closer.

The temperature is chilly, but Merlin is immediately warmed by Arthur's blanketing presence. “So it's not eerie?”

“It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen,” Arthur says, voice gone funny. His hand brushes against Merlin's knuckle to knuckle. It seems almost as if Arthur's waxing lyrical. “Remind me to call you at Christmas, so I can have magical fairy lights.”

Merlin ducks his head and snorts. 

“I'm serious, think how fitting that would be,” Arthur splutters. 

“Does that mean that you're planning on keeping in touch?” Merlin tilts his head to ask.

Merlin doesn't know why but he's waiting for the answer with bated breath. He hasn't known Arthur long enough that his absence would or should be felt. He isn't even positive Arthur won't go to the press with his story – though he wants to believe he never will – so he shouldn't be missing him. But it's still as though his heart could crack at the wrong answer. 

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur says, without any fuss but sounding honest. “I am.”

The water sparkles more fiercely.

 

*****

 

Arthur sits in the window alcove, a mug of tea cradled between his knees. He watches the rain batter the window panes, the storm out at sea, and feels sheltered and protected where he is, observing nature lash out while he's safely cooped inside. It's cosy, being inside while the storm brews and rages. In London, he never feels like this, connected to the elements. He guesses that's what the big city does to you. It detaches you from the outside world.

Here, he's at one with it. He can sense the weather in his bones, the pulse of it beating with his. He likes it. It's a bit like finding home again.

Enjoying this, he keeps sitting there, looking out to the harbour while he sips his tea.

When the pane gets even more fogged up, Arthur writes Merlin's name in the condensation sticking to the glass. He's about to wipe it all off as a silly gesture when the phone rings. He puts the mug down on the sill and crawls across the bed to get at the phone.

“Arthur.” Aglain's voice comes across as stiff and reproachful. “You've been MIA for more than a week.”

Arthur did indeed leave without explicit permission. “I realise and I'm sorry.”

“Tell me you have some kind of story, even if it it's the one I didn't want you to pursue.”

Arthur studies the quilt's pattern. “I have no story. There's no story.”

“You were so sure there was one,” Aglain prompts him, his voice pitched in a tone of doubt. “How come there's none now?”

“You said it yourself, it was a stretch.”

“Arthur,” Aglain's voice comes again. “If you do have something—”

“Whatever I said before about this story,” Arthur says, sitting up in bed as though Aglain could see him and know he means business, “it was wrong. There's absolutely no story to speak of.”

Aglain harrumphs. “Well, if your lead led nowhere, then I want you back in London. There's stories I want you on.”

“I can't—”

“Arthur,” Aglain says, his voice hard, “I'm already forgiving you for running away on a fool's errand you thought would get you a scoop. You're a good reporter, so I thought never mind that, there'll be other leads. If his instincts are right the paper is going to do well too. And if it's nothing it was just some time wasted. Now, however, I do feel you should report back to London.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “I can't,” he says, and even though he fears for his job, he can't bring himself to leave Barra just yet. “Not, now.”

“I can't let you do this, you realise,” Aglain says more calmly than before.

“It's a very personal matter,” Arthur says, unable to explain about Merlin but not wanting Aglain to think he is quitting. “It's very important.”

“I understand,” Aglain says with a sigh, “and yet I shouldn't countenance this.”

Arthur can see Aglain's point. If their positions were reversed he'd probably threaten Arthur with the sack too. But however much he loves his job, he needs to stay in Barra more. “I see.”

“That is why I'm advising you to take your arrear holidays now, and come back to us in a month.”

Arthur's heart lightens. “You're not firing me?”

“No,” Aglain says over the noise of some keyboard tapping. “You're one of the best journalists who've ever worked for me. And I know men need to find themselves before they can get on with their life sometimes, even journalists.”

Arthur didn't dare hope Aglain would sympathise. “I can do that?”

“Yes, you can do that,” Aglain said, mild amusement colouring his tone. “It's your right and what’s best for you and the paper both.”

“Thank you,” Arthur starts but Aglain cuts him off. “I don't believe in tyranny. I believe in doing my best by my employees, expecting they'll give a hundred percent in return because they're satisfied with their life and position at the paper.”

Arthur smiles into the phone. “I appreciate your philosophy. I'll be back in London the moment I can.”

“Take your time and find yourself,” Aglain tells him benignly before hanging up.

After the call with his boss, Arthur's still wearing a hopeful grin when there's a knock on his door. In his socks only, Arthur goes to answer. He expected the maid but it's Merlin instead. 

Merlin raises his palm. “Hi,” he says, dancing from foot to foot. “I dropped by because I thought I'd take you for another tour of the island, maybe as far as Vesteray.”

“There's a storm brewing,” Arthur says, talking over the noise of said storm.

Merlin hangs his head, a blush dusting his cheeks. “I know,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “But I was thinking I don't know how long you're going to stay and I don't want to miss out on the time we could spend together.”

Arthur's facial muscles contract in a smile. He reels Merlin in and shuts the door on the world. “I'm happy you came by.”

Merlin lifts his head. “Are you, really?” 

Arthur can spot the beginnings of a blush on Merlin's face. “Yeah, very glad.”

“I could enchant the weather, make it nice,” Merlin blabs out, words falling one on top of the other in a way Arthur finds charming.

“Wouldn't people notice?” Arthur asks, wondering how much Merlin can play fast and lose with the elements and with people's perception of what's natural.

Merlin's eyes settle on his, sparkly and full of a solemn fire when he says, “I'd risk it for you.”

Merlin's words stop Arthur's lungs. His heart gives a double kick and warmth spreads from Arthur's extremities to flare into his face. He moves closer to Merlin, till his socks brush against Merlin's sturdy shoes. Now that all distance between them is gone, Merlin swallows, and licks at his lips. The mask of easy going unconcern slips, and Merlin appears different. Arthur can see the longing in him, the desire Merlin usually hides behind a mask of friendliness and good humour, flicker across his eyes. 

As though all air has been punched out of him, Arthur expels a breath and settles his hands at Merlin's hips.

Reciprocally, Merlin reaches a hand up to cup Arthur's cheek. That simple touch is more than Arthur expected and more than Arthur thinks he can take without his heart going to Merlin entirely. When those burning fingers stop mapping his cheek, a tremor shakes Arthur's body. His pulse hammers in his temples, as it would if he'd drunk too much. But he hasn't; he's drunk on Merlin rather. “Merlin,” he says, hoping Merlin will stay, to confirm that he will and that he feels the same irrational blinding explosion of feeling Arthur does. “do you— why have you come to me?”

A knowing air suffuses Merlin's features. The tension in the air shifts. Merlin leans close and cards his fingers through Arthur's hair. His grip doesn't hurt; it's rather pleasant. 

Eyes widening with the spark of pleasure he feels Arthur lifts his head. Merlin must know, for he brushes his lips over Arthur’s. “This is why I came.” Merlin's cheeks heat up. “I mean I didn't come to kiss you but because I like you and—”

Arthur shushes Merlin, a grin stretching his features into a likely dumb look. “I wouldn't say no if you'd just come to kiss me.”

“Shush, stupid,” Merlin says fondly, his fingers repeating patterns on Arthur's scalp. “You know what I meant.”

Arthur can't say that he doesn't, but he still lets a teasing smile pull at his lips. 

Merlin rolls his eyes, but he doesn't baulk at the teasing. Instead he finds Arthur's lips once more. 

The gentle touch evolves into something different as their lips press together, rubbing and nuzzling, until they open under each other and their tongues slide together. As his warmth gives him comfort and turns him on at the same time, Arthur clings to Merlin's shoulders and sighs into his mouth. He only breaks the kiss when his lips are swollen and feel rough and only does so to stare at Merlin. 

With his colour high, Merlin is lovely but that's not what's making Arthur's knees shake and his heart race. It's more of a contemplation of how special Merlin is that does it. Arthur doesn't think he's ever met someone quite like Merlin.

With his magic at his fingertips and able as he is to change the shape of the world, Merlin could do everything he wanted. He could rule the world, not like a silly film villain but truly. He could become a tyrant, make people bend their knees. Instead he's chosen to live a quiet retiring life, using his magic to help people, hiding behind veil upon veils of secrets. And nobody's allowed a look in, bar a few people. It must take great strength not to let such power go to your head and yet here Merlin is – humble, easy going, giving. 

Arthur loves him for it.

“What are you staring at?” Merlin asks, sounding unsure as to the reason why Arthur's stopped the kiss.

“You,” Arthur rasps in a thready voice. “I was staring at you.”

“Oh.” Merlin smiles softly and Arthur can't stand the distance he's put between them anymore. So he pulls Merlin to him, kissing his way down Merlin's jawline and neck, running his hands up under his grey woollen jumper. The hairs on Merlin's chest prickle the pads of his fingers, the scent of Merlin, stronger where throat meets shoulder, confuses his senses, sends them reeling.

Under this sensory onslaught, he feels light-headed. His cock gets heavy between his legs, and Arthur's necking becomes more urgent.

This in turn seems to have an effect on Merlin. His own hands find Arthur's skin as well, roaming across his back, fingertips lighting on the notches of his spine with the gentlest of touches. It should be soothing but Merlin's touch makes him want fiercely, desperately.

Arthur needs to say something, move them forward, give shape to this desire he feels deep inside him it undoes him at the core. “I want you, Merlin,” he says, his name thick on Arthur's tongue, like an invocation, a prayer, a humble supplicant's declaration.

Arthur can see Merlin gulp, his Adam's apple take a dive; he understands that he's gathering his courage to say yes.

Merlin's face brightens with a smile when he seemingly does. "You..." he says, as simple as that, and a smile blooms on lips that are apple red from all the kisses he's traded with Arthur. “I'm all yours.”

At the guileless response Arthur's heart tightens in his chest. His hands shake the way they never had since he was young and green at sex. “To be clear,” he rasps, then clears his throat, “you want to...”

“Have sex with you, yeah,” Merlin says, voice going low. “I thought my answer sort of clarified it.” 

Arthur smiles a silly smile as cold hands catch his, pulling him towards the bed.

Arthur's room being small, it doesn't take them more than a few strides to get there. When they do, Arthur stills, his gaze burning. He wants to remember this moment. 

The pale light from outside shines on Merlin, making him look fey in its silvery glow, highlighting how special he is, how much not of this world he is. 

Arthur is almost tempted to ask Merlin what he sees in him, Arthur, who's ordinary enough despite a gift or two he's put to use in his profession, but refrains. He doesn't want Merlin to think it's his difference that's a turn on for Arthur. Because the magic, beautiful as it is, is only the tip of the iceberg. 

Instead he tears his shirt off over his head, and drops his trousers, until he's standing naked, stripped of everything that isn't his need for Merlin.

When he's done, he pulls Merlin's palms against his chest, just over his thundering, runaway heart. 

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin says, walking into his arms. He opens his mouth over Arthur's, tipping his tongue to his lips, before deepening the kiss. All the while, Merlin touches him, flattening his hands across his back, slipping them lower so he's got a palmful of his buttocks, dragging him close.

With a grunt, Arthur pushes up against Merlin, humping against him, his cock stiff and leaking. Since Merlin is still dressed, the motion chafes and sparks fire in his gut.

“Clothes,” says Merlin against his mouth, stepping back to shed his shirt. With no care for how it'll crease, Merlin balls it up and drops it. Then he toes off his shoes, unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down his legs.

Arthur's head spins with how much he wants Merlin, how much he likes what he sees. Merlin's graceful, strong, spindly body is a sight to see. His shoulders are wide; his chest tapers at the hips. His cock, long and red, the foreskin pulled back so that the head shows, makes Arthur's own prick throb. Merlin's everything that Arthur's ever liked in a man, and more.

Because he makes Arthur's heart do wild things too, things that Arthur suspects have little to do with his body. Because Arthur wants Merlin, yeah, but they could be doing none of this and Arthur would still be feeling as though Merlin's a miracle. Arthur never wants to do without him now that he's found him.

Merlin must have latched on to some of this since he looks stricken silly, his mouth rounded in a smile, his eyes fixed on Arthur. His gaze bores into Arthur and goes straight through him, pierces him to the quick and makes him fall for Merlin again. 

Arthur blurts out a few words whose meaning he himself is not sure of. The skin around Merlin's eyes wrinkle and then Merlin steps over to him, gathering him into an embrace, touching his hand to Arthur's cock.

Arthur inhales deeply. His chest swells when Merlin starts fisting him, the drag of his hand thickening Arthur's cock more if at all possible. The sensation is so good it scatters all of Arthur's thoughts. It's almost too much. “Merlin—” Arthur says, louder than intended. “Wait—”

"Don't you want this anymore?" asks Merlin, a shade of disappointment to his tone.

Arthur runs his lips along the side of Merlin's neck. "No, I want this so much it's going to be over before it begins if you don't stop."

"I can do slow," Merlin offers, before pushing Arthur flat on the bed, following till he is covering Arthur's body.

Once he's on top, Merlin spreads his hands over Arthur's chest, down his arms, following that touch with that of his mouth, taking Arthur's breath with him. 

With every kiss the air crowds close about Arthur's ears, filling them with the roaring sound of his own heartbeat. The room seems to be reduced to one focal point, the space around the bed, Merlin straddling him, every sensation blooming into one of greater magnitude. 

His abdomen lifts as he breathes, drinks in big lungfuls since he feels perpetually short of air, each breath of his a serrated, quickening counterpoint to the pounding of his own heart. 

Merlin trails easy kisses over Arthur's quickly heating skin. He repeats the pattern over and over again, stroking his body with his open mouth, sucking, nipping. 

Arthur can only lean into the touch and sigh.

After a while, though, Arthur can no longer stay passive. He needs to touch. So his hands take to skating across Merlin's shoulders, squeezing, pulling Merlin to him, testing the joining of skin and bones, dwelling on the length of supple back muscles that stretch as Merlin moves against him. 

Hips thrusting sharp and shallow, Merlin presses a long thigh between Arthur's legs, his cock nudging Arthur's, then nestling lower against his balls, sparking fire in Arthur.

Alive with that, Arthur's hands tighten around Merlin's arse cheeks, bucking into him, clutching Merlin to him as their mouths slip slide together for another kiss, one that is deep and open and sky-rockets Arthur's need even further.

At this point, Arthur is only aware of the need to touch, the need for sex. He feels as though he must either crawl inside of Merlin or feel him so deep within that they're inseparable; pulling him around him so he can learn the scent of him, retain an indelible sense memory of him.

When Merlin touches his cock, giving him a firm squeeze, Arthur groans.

"Merlin," Arthur pleads, not knowing what he's asking for, just that this is not enough.

"What do you want me to do?" Merlin asks, pausing to sweep his gaze over Arthur.

Arthur caresses Merlin's face, pushing back the hair covering his forehead, the baby ones sticking to his skin and curling round with how sweaty they are. “Just you.”

Merlin lowers himself on top of Arthur, his skin gliding and catching against Arthur's as they merge into another kiss. The he moves down Arthur's body, briefly lingering on his chest, stomach and hips. 

When Merlin's mouth closes on his cock, Arthur moans, goes dizzy. Merlin's mouth strokes him and the breath shudders out of Arthur. Each nip, each kiss, every pass of his tongue brings him closer to orgasm without quite getting there yet. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, pushing off his elbows. 

“Let me,” Merlin says, working kisses to the crown of Arthur's cock. “Let me.”

Body all tense with the need to come, Arthur can't do anything but let Merlin go on. 

Merlin drags his mouth up and down. Arthur can feel Merlin's swollen lips tickling the soft skin of his cock, can sense them as they lip downward, taking in more and more of him. On a backwards swipe Merlin draws his lips right up to the crown of his cock, tightening his grip with his hand.

Arthur's muscles tense all over, making his body lock, his knees bend, his toes curl. Hot licks of pleasure go from his cock, to his spine.

As he pulls back, Merlin curls a hand around him, pulling back the foreskin. He fingers the head, slowly circling the tiny slit at the centre. Arthur nearly goes blind with pleasure. He hisses, he curses. “Merlin,” he croaks. 

“I suppose this is working, isn't it?” Merlin says before putting his mouth back on him, causing Arthur to jerk his hips into Merlin's touch. 

As Merlin goes back to giving him head, Arthur holds his body tight, muscle groups clenching as he strains to stay in control of a body that seems to have developed a mind of its own, quite unrelated to what Arthur wants it to do. His body pursues the pleasure, mindless of how soon this is going to be over if he hastens the pace. His mind tells Arthur to let this last, savour it. 

As Merlin swirls his tongue across the seeping head, Arthur wonders whether Merlin knows what torture he's putting Arthur through. All he wants is to surrender to his climax. And though he wants to wait, Merlin is too good, the pressure of his tongue on his nerve endings too wicked for Arthur not to near orgasm.

As much as he wants to delay it, he feels himself sliding towards it, his body thrashing, covered in sweat, his mind foggy, his cock enveloped in such sweet heat, Arthur can already imagine himself spilling. He wants to let go and surmount the last wave towards release.

From between his teeth, he says, “Merlin, please."

"It's okay, it's okay," Merlin soothes him. “I know what you want.”

Arthur nods his head. Before he's done with it, before his head hits the mattress again, Merlin's eyes glow with the gold of his magic and pleasure laps at his whole body. It's a powerful wave Arthur doesn't know how to ride. It's like a being enveloped in a supernova of pleasure, that lights up his nerves, soothes his skin, cradles him while stimulating every part of him that seeks the thrill of orgasm. 

Arthur's calling for Merlin when Merlin finally heeds him and, eyes still, aglow, he brings his mouth over Arthur's leaking tip. That's all it takes before Arthur's spilling in Merlin's mouth.

Merlin takes it all, until Arthur sensitive, aching with it. Then Merlin sits up and kisses him softly, with his lips only at first, but lips that taste of intimacy. But when Arthur gasps at the spine melting sweetness of it, he deepens it, dipping his tongue into Arthur's mouth, over the back of his teeth.

Arthur thinks he can taste himself, the tangy flavour of sex, but what he chases is the taste of Merlin underneath, so he opens wider, inhaling through his nose, until Merlin whimpers into the kiss, his hips shooting forward.

Of course, Merlin hasn't come yet. “Let me,” Arthur says, touching his lips to Merlin's throat, his hands skirting low, reaching the jut of in his hip, lingering there, caressing, teasing. “I want to make you come.”

Merlin pulls back, searching his face. “Yeah, yes,” he says, putting Arthur's hand on his cock.

Nuzzling his face, Arthur strokes him until Merlin's cock is sodden at the tip. Then he stops and says, “Would you fuck me?”

Merlin's subtle rocking ceases. His shoulders bunched up, he stills, trembling nevertheless. “I— yeah...”

Meaning to get to the bathroom to retrieve some lube, Arthur sits up. 

But Merlin puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Stay.”

“But—”

Merlin lines the side of his face with kisses. “Magic, remember?”

With his magic, Merlin prepares him. He wets him, circles his fingers down low, stretches him with their blunt length. Warmth coalesces inside Arthur, narrowing down to pure sensation, an awareness of burning stimulation that bursts into intimacy. Merlin's fingers penetrate him to a rhythm that echoes the one of his heart beat. Unable to take it and stand still, Arthur grapples Merlin's back, his fingers splayed to urge Merlin on.

"Merlin." His voice is harsher now, mirroring his state, how worked raw he is, under the layer of exhaustion and sweat. “Come on, Merlin.”

“Do you think you're ready?” Merlin asks, his voice as ruined as Arthur's. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur says, panting with need now.

“Okay, all right,” Merlin says. “Let's get you in position.” 

Merlin slips a pillow under him then crawls up between his legs. His hand is on his cock to guide it home. To help him along, wishing to speed up all contact, Arthur raises his hips slightly. Merlin mounts him. 

When Merlin enters him, Arthur breathes harshly through his nostrils, words falling off his lips that mean little. Fighting past the initial resistance Merlin circles his hips, pausing at Arthur's merest grunt. Breathing on his neck, giving Arthur time to adjust, Merlin trembles braced over him. As he waits, he kisses Arthur, his tongue slipping past Arthur's lips.

With Merlin's cock throbbing inside him, his tongue sweet and slow in his mouth, Arthur moans. He wants to twist, surprise Merlin into motion. But Merlin waits still, even though Arthur is breaking apart with need, his body covered in his sweat, his thigh muscles trembling as they clamp around Merlin. 

Merlin stays inside him, on top of him, the weight of him maddening, together with the intimate smell of him, the feel of naked flesh moving on top of him devastates as it hasn't ever before. It's when Arthur's close to breaking point that Merlin starts withdrawing and pushing back. 

As he does, Arthur meets him movement for movement. 

His body surging, Merlin seeks his hand and laces their fingers together in a hard grip that tethers Arthur to their connection instead of letting him sink into himself. Even so he experiences an overwhelming wave of tenderness, one that makes him meet Merlin's eyes as he pitches back and forth. 

He's come already, so at this point all he wants is for Merlin to do the same, catch him in the moment, be the one to give it to him. 

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur finds it in himself to say, “come on.”

Merlin grunts in his ear: his arms, braced either side of Arthur’s head, quiver. Making it clear that he's nearing climax, on the edge of it, his rhythm changes. With every sharp thrust, Merlin sobs. 

Arthur can't want it any better. He only wishes for Merlin to feel good. He desires to give Merlin pleasure, just as much, if not more, than what he experienced himself.

Right now Merlin is stroking himself inside him, going quicker about it and though Arthur has already tasted his climax, he doesn't mind the tempo Merlin has set. He finds it perfect and touches something inside him that breaks him and remakes him anew, better.

Arthur spurs him on, a foot on Merlin's calf, his hand splayed wide between tail bone and buttock. 

Merlin produces a series of breathless cries that grow in pitch with each forward move. He arches above him, face changing with his pleasure. With one snappy motion, he leans forward and curls his hand around Arthur's cock. With a few tugs he brings Arthur to hardness again. This second hard on comes as a surprise to Arthur. His arousal isn't as sharp as it was on his first go but it's sweet nonetheless, even more so when Merlin seeks his mouth again. 

The kiss goes on in the same way Merlin's rocking does, as beautiful to Arthur in its innocence as the pleasure radiating from his cock. He comes with a grunt, a softer peak than the one shaking him before. He rides the last mellow crest in time to watch a surprised helpless expression slide over Merlin's face. And then Merlin murmurs his name against his throat, shaking, glowing with magic, until he subsides.

“Does it always happen?” Arthur asks when he gets his breath back.

Merlin lands on his side with a soft whoosh of covers, “What?” Merlin asks, voice sleepy, eyes dazed.

“The glow,” Arthur says, rubbing his hand up and down Merlin's arm. “Do you always glow after sex?”

Merlin's mouth opens in confusion. “I glowed?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, stealing a kiss from Merlin, a shallow one that only involves the imprint of lips on lips. “You did.”

The corners of Merlin's mouth lift. “It used to happen when I was thirteen, fourteen and I... well, had a wank in my room.” Merlin goes redder than the sex made him. “But never since. You're the first one to...” Merlin gnaws on his lower lip. “Rock my world enough for that to happen.”

Arthur hoots with laughter. It takes him from the belly and makes him shake, lighting up everything for him. “I wouldn't have used those words...”

“No, of course not, you're a serious journalist—”

Arthur steams over Merlin, “But I'm very happy to be the one to have rocked your world.”

“Yeah?” Merlin asks, slanting a head for a kiss. “That's good. Because I like you.”

“You do?” 

“Yeah,” Merlin says, taking Arthur's mouth softly before his eyelids go down. “I do, lots.”

***** 

Arthur sits on the couch and pulls Merlin down. The moment Merlin lands in his lap, Arthur noses at his neck, kissing just below Merlin's jaw at a patch of skin that is bristly with Merlin's five o' clock shadow. As he works a love bite there, he feels Merlin's breath give way.

His arm winds around his neck and he shifts, straddling Arthur.

Arthur is about to grind up into him, when the telly turns itself on.

“The wiring must be horrid in this place!” Arthur says, briefly distracted.

Merlin is saying, “Old place, never re-done, comes with the territory of old island constructions,” when the signal falters, and a voice takes over the old film showing they have to rethink that theory. “This is Julius Borden,” the voice says, “of Drakonia.”

Merlin stiffens in Arthur's arms.

“I'm communicating with you, people of earth, for one reason and one reason alone,” Borden says in the tone of someone who's reading out a speech. “I want what belongs to my people back, the dragon egg that crashed on your planet.”

Merlin stands quickly, unmindful of his nudity, balling his fists at the screen. “My father said I had to look after it, cause it to be born. He didn't say anything about this Borden person,” he says, flailing at the screen.

Arthur wants to answer Merlin, and is considering offering going back to St Kilda so they can ask instructions of Balinor, when the voice that has taken over the telly continues speaking. “I also want my fellow Drakonian, Ambrosious, son of Balinor, to surrender himself to me.” The voice takes on a more personal tone. “I know your father sent you to earth when you were too young to decide for yourself, but Drakonia is no more and all Drakonians should rally together, to start out a new civilisation.”

Arthur knows a moment of panic at the notion. This person that is little more than a disembodied voice essentially trying to take Merlin away, somewhere that isn't here, a place that Arthur could never reach. At the thought Arthur's stomach clenches. He's just found Merlin. He doesn't mean to lose him so soon.

“Merlin,” he says, but the voice continues before Arthur has a chance to check with Merlin.

“If Ambrosius doesn't surrender himself,” Borden says, his tone becoming more sinister, “I'm afraid we'll have to threaten earth's inhabitants to convince him.” The tone of Borden's address changes, becoming more personal. “Ambrosius, I have to make this an ultimatum. There is no other path. Come meet me or Earth shall suffer.”

The telly goes back to its scheduled programming.

Merlin whips around with a drawn expression on his face. “What the hell do I do now?”

**** 

 

The drive home has never seemed longer to Merlin, the road winding and expanding outwards, looking as if it's got more bends in it than it ever did. Wishing he could see the end of it, Merlin taps his foot on the car mat, the noise of the repeated landings of his sole creating a cadenced sound.

Even though he's driving, Arthur puts a hand on his knee. “Merlin, stop worrying.”

Merlin looks out the window, at the gorge bordering the road to Ealdor House. “Easy for you to say.”

Arthur's eyes harden, and though his glare is directed at the road Merlin knows that part of Arthur's anger was sparked by Merlin's words. “I'm not just talking to air my mouth, you know.”

“I know,” Merlin says, deflating both physically and in his determination to argue the point. “But wishful thinking doesn't help either.”

Arthur doesn't reply to that. He keeps silent until they arrive at Gaius and Alice's. Before the engine has died down, both Gaius and Alice have emerged from the house and run down the steps and into the drive. Choking with emotion, Merlin wrestles with the car handle and once he's free he runs up the drive.

Once they've gauged the distance between them, Merlin flings himself in Alice's arms. When the life's been hugged out of him, he does the same with Gaius, his arms around the old man who's raised him, his chin on his shoulder. He doesn't speak for the longest time. His tongue feels thick in his mouth and all thought has shut down to the one fear that's been hounding him since the message yesterday. 

He's come to fear words and only wants to feel the way he did when he was younger and Gaius and Alice were there to make him feel safe. “I—” he says, and breaks down, sobbing until Gaius pats him on the back and says, “There, there my boy. Let's go inside and discuss this.”

Before Gaius can lead him into the house he used to live in as a teen, Merlin spins on his heels. His gaze meets Arthur's. Arthur's leaning against the car's bonnet, toying with the keys. His eyes are cast down.

Wanting Arthur there, he steps out of Gaius' arms and says, “Just a minute and we'll be inside.”

Gaius flicks a speculative look at Arthur but together with Alice he retreats back to the house. Merlin trots back to Arthur and says, “Come inside.”

“Are you sure this isn't something between you and your family?”

Merlin sighs and leans against the car the way Arthur is doing. “I'm pretty sure that I want you in there. Naturally—” Merlin sucks in a breath “—I can understand if you think me too much trouble.”

“I'll stand by you whatever happens,” Arthur says, making sure to brush the side of his body against Merlin's. “Even if this is the start of the apocalypse.”

Gaius and Alice changed the furniture in the living room yet again, but Merlin doesn't pay too much attention to the new layout. He sprawls on the nearest surface and opens the conversation without asking after the changes as he normally would have done. “So,” he says, twiddling his thumbs nervously together, “what do I do? Do I turn myself in?”

“No, Merlin, you can't,” Gaius says. “It's too dangerous. We don't know who this person is. We don't know why he wants you. And you don't want to be outed as a magical person either.”

“That's as dangerous as turning up for this appointment with Julius Borden,” Alice agrees with Gaius.

Merlin tips his head at Arthur and questions him with an eyebrow. “I don't want you to run any risk,” Arthur says at last, basically agreeing with his parents.

Merlin starts off the sofa, and takes to pacing. “If I don't, we don't know what Borden might do to humanity.”

Arthur follows Merlin's movement with his eyes. “We don't know that he'll do anything. Maybe if you lie low...”

Merlin lets his eyes bore into Arthur's, “Can you be positive something bad won't happen if I do lie low?”

Arthur opens his mouth, a stuttered breath indicating he tried to speak before giving up. “I can't guarantee that.”

“No, no, you can't,” Merlin says, rubbing his hands together, raking them through his hair, anything but stillness.

“None of us can,” Gaius pitches in. Like Arthur he's watching Merlin move across the room. “But I won't suggest a choice that will put you in danger.”

“So I should let someone else take the fall,” Merlin says, drawing the one conclusion that can be reached on the basis of Gaius' position. 

Nobody says anything. Merlin understands the nature of that silence. The people gathered here love him and their number one priority is looking out for him. Yet Merlin can't listen to them because that would be the selfish thing to do. His powers, he now sees with more clarity, can be worth something, help people, or single him out as an alien. He's only the monster he feared he'd be as a child if he uses his magic in the wrong way, if he shies away now, if he hides. Merlin frowns as he prepares to explain this to Alice, Gaius and Arthur.

“Oh no,” Alice says before he quite can, “he's decided already.”

Merlin huffs a laugh but the others don't see the humour in this that Merlin does. “How did you know?”

Alice shrugs her shoulders. “I raised you, boy.”

Gaius chuckles too. 

They're lost in the moment when Arthur shoots up from his seat and says, “You can't, you can't let him. It's crazy dangerous and you're letting him expose himself in all ways possible.”

Gaius and Alice look to each other, but Merlin can't linger on their silent communication. He's too busy feeling his heart break at Arthur's words. “Arthur—”

“You can't do it,” Arthur says, eyes wet, mouth twisted in a moue of betrayal. “Merlin, I—”

Yep, Merlin's heart cracking and there's no stopping this from happening. “Would you like me if I let people suffer?”

“You shouldn't risk your life for that,” Arthur is quick to say.

“But to preserve life on earth?” Merlin questions him, understanding, deep down, that he and Arthur don't think too differently.

The breath pushes out of Arthur, and he lowers his head. “I'd do it for that,” he concedes. His fingers curl inwards and into a fist. “But I don't want you to do it.”

Merlin holds his gaze for the longest time.

**** 

Arthur turns on his side, a noise disturbing his slumber. In an attempt to flee the source of the noise, he burrows his head under the pillow. Under there, all sounds come muffled and the one that disturbed Arthur doesn't penetrate the barrier Arthur put between himself and it. Releasing a sigh, Arthur smiles into the bedding when the buzzing starts again with more insistence than before.

Scrunching up his nose, Arthur emerges from his mound of pillows. In the dark he can't see much but he can definitely make out the red led blinking intermittently from the top of Merlin's desk. That's decidedly Arthur's mobile.

Quietly, so as not to dislodge or wake Merlin, Arthur leaves the bed and crosses Merlin's childhood room to reach the desk. Once he has, he makes a grab for the buzzing device and pads out of the room. Only when he's down the corridor does he answer. He does it with a muffled voice all the same because Gaius and Alice are sleeping on the other side of the landing.

“Yes,” he says, not even bothering to check who the incoming call is from. “Pendragon speaking.”

Aglain greets him with the words: “So there was a story.”

Arthur can't act as though Borden's national broadcast isn't something Aglain would be aware of. “Yes.”

“So this man is...” Aglain seems to be measuring is words. “An alien and the artefact was the vessel that brought him here?”

“He's not an alien,” Arthur is quick to fire. “He just wasn't born on this planet.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Aglain says, as if that's commentary enough.

“That's the truth of it,” Arthur says. If only Aglain knew Merlin, he'd agree with Arthur.

“I think that's debatable,” Aglain says in his most philosophical tone of voice, “but I don't think that canvassing this point should be our main aim. We should focus on getting his story. So that the public can be aware of his position and what is going on.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur says, jaw sticking out. “I'm not working on a story at the moment, and Merlin isn't a job."

"Arthur, I thought this was the story you were pursuing."

“It was but it stopped being a story a long time ago.”

The noise Aglain makes over the line is a quiet rumble of assessment. “Arthur, I don't know what to say."

"I'm not selling Merlin to the press," Arthur says with all the conviction he has. "You're obviously free to give me the sack."

“I don't want to do that, Arthur, I don't." There's a but coming, Arthur can sense it on the air. “But I'm assigning you to a new story. When you do come back to London, that is.”

Relief washes over Arthur like a cool breeze. Then he thinks of all that Aglain's call entails and realises that there is something more that needs to be said. “There's something I need to ask you. I realise that it's nearly impossible, but I need you to talk to press editors and tell them to sit on this story."

"Arthur, you do understand that once the press gets a whiff of Merlin, there'll be no hiding him."

“All that I'm asking is that you gag our people and put a spoke in the wheels of the competition," Arthur says, planning for the future. “Maybe we can give Merlin his life back."

“I don't know what I can do to achieve that result,” Aglain tells him, doubt lacing his voice. 

“Debunk the alien theory,” Arthur says, thinking fast on his feet. “Make them believe there's no story to be sought here.”

Aglain hums thoughtfully. “I don't know how long I can do that.”

Arthur doesn't think Aglain is wrong in thinking such a diversion won't last. If Borden turns up as he threatened, then that'll be proof enough. “Just cover my trail,” Arthur says. Considering how long the secret of Merlin's identity was kept, Arthur owes as much secrecy as he can to Merlin. Maybe if Arthur hadn't found him in the first place, none of this would be happening. “Don't reveal where I was, who I talked to. Make it hard for them to zero in on Merlin.”

“All right,” Aglain says, sounding doubtful. “I'll try to do as you say.”

A weight is lifted right off Arthur's chest. “I don't know how to thank you.”

“You can thank me by being a conscientious journalist, Arthur,” Aglain says. “You do it every day.” Before hanging up, he adds, “See you back in London.”

When the conversation is over, Arthur pushes the red button and turns around. He jumps when he sees Merlin on the landing. In the semi darkness he can't see much, but he can tell that Merlin is looking at him. “Thank you,” he says, with a voice so low it's not distinctively Merlin's. “I don't know what to say but thank you for—”

“Not selling you out?” Arthur guesses.

Merlin grimaces.

“Do you really think I would have done that?” Arthur asks, wondering whether Merlin thought him capable of that.

“No,” Merlin says with a small smile that looks eerie in the wan light. “But I've often been told to watch out and make sure to keep my magic secret because the world isn't welcoming to freaks—”

“You're no freak!” Arthur interrupts Merlin because he really needs Merlin to know that.

“So now I'm... moved,” Merlin says, smile softening. “But that doesn't mean I don't know what an upright, exceptional man you are.”

Arthur rushes over to Merlin and hugs him tight to him. “I'm neither of those things. I'm an ordinary bloke who happened to fall for an extraordinary guy.”

Merlin sniffles against his skin. “Let's say that you are a chivalrous, honest man who I love very much.”

Arthur gasps softly. “I—”

“You don't have to say it back,” Merlin says in a sweet tone. “I know I was quick to do it, but I—”

“It's the same for me,” Arthur says, inhaling the scent of Merlin as he runs his hands up his back. “And I promise you, I'll be by your side whatever happens.”

**** 

 

The plain of Stonehenge is washed in sunlight, slanting rays hitting those stones that after millennia are still seeking the sky. The air is still and tastes like spring, daisies pushing up from the soil. There's a shimmer to the atmosphere that makes Merlin want to live in the moment. 

It's either that or the fact that a dragon shaped vessel, something like a Viking ship, is flying down and landing on the grass that's making Merlin concentrate on the goings on. 

“Is that?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes at the opening doors of the hovering vessel.

“A quaint looking space ship?” Merlin asks, focusing on the door of the vessel sliding open. “Yeah.”

Arthur sidles so close their shoulders graze. “Right so, I never thought I'd see something like this, but yeah.”

When Borden appears, Merlin makes sure to take a step forward so he's the first thing Borden sees, not Arthur. Arthur, however, doesn't stay behind him for long. As Borden's associates, a man and a woman dressed in a garb Merlin would call medieval, appear Arthur moves to stand by his side.

Merlin isn't happy having Arthur there but right now, he can't do anything about his presence, not short of transporting him elsewhere with magic. And Merlin can't envision himself doing something that would hurt Arthur, make him feel less. This means that Arthur is staying. At the moment, Merlin needs to assess the new threat, make sure Borden doesn't take it into his head to harm mankind, and try to save himself if at all possible. Arthur is always at the back of his mind and Merlin vows himself to protect him but he'll switch to panic mode when there's need. In the meanwhile he concentrates on his magic, reaching into his soul till it tickles his fingertips. 

Borden doesn't seem to sense it.

“Ambrosius,” he says, taking a step forward, which singles him out as the leader of his companions. “I'm Julius Borden, which you may know already. And these are my lieutenants, Enmyria and Alvarr.” He points to his wingpeople, then adds, “Greetings.”

Merlin doesn't feel like being polite though he hopes that this opener is a sign of goodwill. “To you as well.”

“Are you ready?”

Arthur takes a step forward. “What do you want him for?”

“He belongs to us.” Borden signals to his companions as if that makes them a group. 

“He belongs to earth,” Arthur says, challenging Borden's notion. “Not to you.”

“And you have something that belongs to Drakonia.”

“The dragon egg,” Merlin says, referring to Borden's ultimatum. “I won't give it to you until you tell me what you want to do with it.”

Borden nods. “We want to hatch it.” He seeks the consent of his companions. Their mimicry confirms Borden's words, their support of his intent. “So we can start our civilisation on another planet.”

“Can't you do it without the dragon egg?” Merlin asks, trying to find a settlement they can both agree on peacefully.

“Unfortunately, we can't accept that,” Borden says, unsheathing his sword and pointing it at Merlin's chest. “Either you help us or you're dead.”

“In that case I don't see why I should help.”

“Because,” Borden says, shifting his sword onto Arthur. “I'll kill him and lay your planet to waste if you don't.”

Given the blood welling from a shallow cut on Arthur's neck – which prompts rage in Merlin – Merlin has no doubt that Borden isn't joking.

He doesn't know how he means to effect his plan, but if Borden has the same powers as Merlin, then he can lay this planet to waste. Merlin has a fair idea of how far his magic can go and what kind of damage it can wreak. “All right,” he says. “I'll come with you.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, moving forward despite the sword pointed at his neck. “Don't.”

“I have to,” Merlin tells him, his heart moving in somersaults at this display of loyalty on Arthur's part. There's something inside him that prompts him to cry. But he can't allow himself to in Borden's presence, so he reins the tears in, makes himself look stiff and unmoveable. “Maybe that's what my magic is for.”

“Then take me too,” Arthur tells Borden, his eyes sparking with the fire of determination.

A smile that sinks Merlin's hopes for Arthur's safety nudges Borden's lips. “Why not,” he says, sheathing his sword. “You'll be our guarantee in case Ambrosius misbehaves.” He lifts a hand and his two companions make a grab for Arthur, conducting him, despite his shrugging them off, onto the vessel. 

Merlin wants to yank him back and make sure he goes somewhere safe, somewhere secure, but he understands he can't make that choice for Arthur. He'll watch out for him though. He follows Borden's group on board of the vessel.

Once there, Borden's associates grab Arthur and pull him into a cabin below the hatch. As for him, Borden conducts him into a wider cabin. Feigning politeness, Borden offers him a seat at the table. Before taking his he starts a chant. The chant sends the ship into a trembling, careening motion, and then rolling. “What's happening?”

“This is an old Druidic ship,” Borden says. “The last of its kind. We found it on the ruins of Drakonia.”

“So what does it do?”

The moment Merlin asks that question the ship shakes. 

“With the appropriate prayer it takes you anywhere in space,” Borden says, in a majestic tone. “As close as possible to the ancient druid enclaves.”

“So you've now what?” Merlin asks in a tone that underlines how rhetorical his question is. “Successfully kidnapped us?”

“That's no more no less than what Drakonians did to me,” says Borden, his eyebrow skipping upwards. In an impassioned tone, he adds, “Imprisoning me against my will. That's what condemning you to an oubliette does.”

“An oubliette?” Merlin asks, having never heard of the term if not in connection with old fashioned punishments he doesn't think exist in space. “What's that?”

“A cruel and unusual punishment invented by people who were corrupt themselves,” Borden says, eyes darkening to a colour near that of pitch. “They condemned Drakonia by killing all dragons, that's how pure they were.”

Merlin knows part of this story already. Balinor told him when he saw him. But there's more that can be gleaned by letting Borden talk. “So what's your deal?”

“I want to get everything I once had back,” Borden says. His hand curls into a fist and he slams it hard on the table. “A planet of my own, respect, riches.”

“And you think the way to have that back is to get your hands on a dragon?” Merlin asks.

“Yes,” Borden answers him promptly. “Dragons tamed Drakonia; they came first, our civilisation followed.”

Merlin can't say he trusts Borden, not after Balinor told him that he must look after the egg himself, but if he can save humanity by surrendering it, he might think it an acceptable loss. “So if you have the dragon egg,” says Merlin, feeling as if he's betraying his father's legacy as he does so, “what would you do?”

“Colonise a new planet.”

Merlin nods. Borden being away would ensure his family and Arthur's safety, not to mention the well-being of the rest of the Earth's population. Merlin might be Balinor's son and a Drakonian by birth, but the truth is that his allegiance lies elsewhere. The mere thought of something happening to Gaius, Alice or Arthur sends him into panic mode, his thoughts spinning faster than he can control them. Sweat breaking onto his skin he says, “Let's say I know where the vessel is.”

“I have no doubt that you do know,” Borden says, smiling like a predator. “I know it went with you. Your father told me.”

“Would you take it as far away as possible from Earth and be done with us?”

Borden gains his feet once again. “You make me laugh,” he says faux convivially. “You act as though I don't know the perks that come with being a Drakonian on Earth.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks, genuinely confused by this new turn. He'd though Borden was primarily after the egg.

“The powers?” Borden says, clearly alluding to the magic. “You must have noticed them.”

Does that mean that Borden normally doesn't have any, that the magic comes from Earth rather than being a Drakonian perk? This needs more thought. Merlin doesn't want to give away his game, so he decides not to question Borden on his magic. For now Merlin says, “So what does that have to do with anything?”

Borden snorts; the way he does it is menacing, sounding like a hyena after it has found prey. “It's got everything to do with everything. If I need a planet to colonise then I'd rather choose one where there's a perk or two. Where I'm more powerful than others.”

“Colonise.” That word doesn't portend well. “You mean...”

“Exactly what you think it means,” Borden says with a glint in his eyes that is far too wild for Merlin's taste. “I can take Earth from humans.”

In this equation there's certainly an element that's been left out. “And what happens to humans?”

“They die,” Borden says, pulling his shoulders up non-committally. 

Merlin shoots up, rage twisting him. He calls forth his magic, wishing to use it to blast away the threat, but even when he stretches his palm out nothing happens. There's no flare deep inside him telling him that his magic is working.

Borden laughs. “It seems you haven't been paying attention to what I've been saying.”

“I—” Merlin says, not knowing what to do now. He's always had his magic to rely on. Even when he was hiding it, it was within reach. When they bullied him in school it was. When he needed it to protect Freya and Will it was easily summoned. Now he can't feel it and he doesn't know what that makes him or how to accomplish his mission. Without his magic Merlin is good for nothing. He can't even throw a punch like Valiant can. Earth is doomed if its hopes rest on him. “I don't—”

“In Drakonia, military leaders were honoured because they could defend the people,” says Borden. “The power of the sword. Why do you think weapons were needed at all?”

“Because you didn't have magic to protect you,” Merlin says, guessing that here, away from Earth's orbit, any Drakonian would be as powerless as he is now.

“Indeed,” says Borden, “nobility came replete with two different sets of powers; the honour to bear arms and the power to command dragons, the life givers. There was nothing else.”

“So you're telling me that you want me to reveal the location of the dragon egg so that you can take over Earth using the powers the planet gives you?” Merlin sums up. “Why should I do that? You mean for my family and your hostage,” he says, referring to Arthur in as formal a tone as he can so as not to betray his importance to him, “to die. I see no incentive to help you at all.”

Borden stalks up to him, tips Merlin's chair back and looms over him. “I'm offering you quite a few advantages. For one, I can promise not to kill off your family. Once I have what I want, they're of no interest to me.”

“What about Arthur?” Merlin asks, making sure he's not flinching or showing any sign of fear nor of specific affection.

“Arthur,” Borden repeats, assessing the word. “Is he very dear to you? I'm sure that if he is, we can come to an agreement about him too.”

“He's just a friend,” Merlin tells Borden, watching the interplay of expression showing over the man's face as he sifts Merlin's words and tone. 

Borden's eyes thin to slits and his mouth pulls into a severe line right before he says, “A friend, right. Told you, I can include him in the bargain; or tell the Lady Enmyria, she was a member of a military caste back on Drakonia – very experienced in wielding arms and exacting punishment, that it's time to off him.”

Merlin doesn't know what to say. On the one hand there's his family and Arthur. If he strikes a bargain with Borden he can save them, and ensure their continued survival. He has no idea how long the bargain can last once Merlin has surrendered the precious dragon egg to Borden, but it would hold for a while, at least enough to buy time. On the other hand there's the whole of earth's population, innocents that have done nothing to deserve the extermination Borden would inflict upon them. If he yields, they're mince meat.

Merlin can't condemn humanity to slaughter. Whatever he is, whatever his heritage, he was raised on Earth, among the people that inhabit that planet. Those people aren't a mere cypher to him. They have faces, names; they're the ones he grew up side by side with. A few come to mind, his old school teachers, the fishermen on Barra, the guys from the pub he worked with. 

They are individuals with their hopes and dreams and lives. Merlin can't take that from them.

And yet....

Merlin's thoughts swirl fast in his brain in a way that's generating a headache. He's nearly hyperventilating, when pain racks through him. It has nothing to do with his stress migraine. This stab of pain is sharp and depleting, takes his insides, makes his skin burn, and sends spikes of cramps through his body.

His muscles locking, he falls off the chair Borden tipped back. He doesn't even experience the pain of impact, the other aches drowning it, but rather hears the dull thud his body produces when it hits the ground.

Without any ceremony, Borden rolls him onto his back with his boot. “Not feeling the new atmosphere?” he asks, the words solicitous, his tone anything but. “I suggest you get used to it. In the meanwhile let me tell you this, you have two hours to decide, after which I'll kill your friend as an incentive.”

Waves of pain cripple him, make him curl in on himself. The only answer he can provide is a moan.

Borden isn't giving a rat's arse about Merlin's condition, that's for sure. He steps over him and goes to the cabin's door. “Remember,” he says, throwing Merlin a look over his shoulders. “Think of the perks.”

***** 

 

The woman guarding him oils a whetstone, then scrapes her dagger against its surface. Every now and then, the knife sparks. As she sharpens her dagger she occasionally lifts her eyes to glare at him.

Arthur knows what that glare means. Enmyria's telling him that she's watching him and that he won't escape. The message has sunk very clearly. 

Yet Arthur is still seeking an out from this situation. He ducks his head and stares at his bound wrists, trying to give off a docile, scared vibe. It's not as if he's not scared. Enmyria is not handling a weapon for no reason. Her people don't look like they're boyscouts with the way they've been threatening Merlin. So he's a bit subdued, but not so far as to turn his rational brain off. 

Yet he wants them to believe he's entirely cowed.

So he studies his surroundings. There's a hatch above him you can reach by way of climbing a ladder. It's guarded well. The woman's companion, Alvarr, Arthur thinks his name is, is sitting outside. Arthur entertains no doubt of him being as dangerous as this woman here.

So what can he do? It's two against one. The odds are against him but not impossible. The problem is another one though. Even if he gets past the control of these two people, what can he do to get out of Borden's power and save Merlin?

Maybe if they both join forces...

“You're thinking too loud,” Enmyria says, angling her dagger against the whetstone. “Just sit tight and wait for your pal to give us what we want, human.”

Arthur looks to the side, not wanting to give his captor an inch. “Humans? Is this the way you're negotiating with us?”

“We're not negotiating,” Enmyria says, then noticing she's said too much, she ducks her chin, refusing to speak more.

Arthur's got a sinking feeling that Enmyria's revelation is closer to the truth than what Borden said about coming to an agreement. “So what are you doing?”

Enmyria's muscles tighten as if she's trying to check her expression. That's not good either. She's hiding a lot. This means there's some kind of nefarious plan on foot. Arthur needs to get out of here fast. “What happens to Merlin when this is over?”

Once again Enmyria keeps silent, working away at the edge of her dagger.

“I see,” says Arthur convivially. “You know I'm a journalist, I'm used to glean a lot from silences. What you've got to look for is things like the suddenness of the silences. If your subject's speaking and then suddenly goes quiet... That means you've hit gold.”

Enmyria points the dagger at him. “Will you shut up?”

Arthur smirks. “Actually, no, I have time on my hands.” He wriggles his bound fingers.

Enmyria thumps the table with the flat of her hand.

At the same time, Arthur shoves at the table with his feet, upturning it. 

Enmyria is quick to jump back but the oaken mass hits her hip. 

Though loath to hurt a woman, Arthur charges her, shoulders first. He drives his shoulder into her stomach, knocking her against the wall. On impact, she makes a lot of noise; the partition wall she hits does too, shaking and rattling. 

“Em,” Alvarr calls out from out the door he's guarding.

Enmyria is too busy trying to carve Arthur's side with her dagger to answer her associate's call with more than a grunt. To avoid being gutted, Arthur uses his weight, keeping Enmyria pinned so she can't manoeuvre enough to use her blade. He's got to do something or he's at an impasse. If he keeps her pinned he's momentarily safe but only for as long as Alvarr doesn't come crashing in.

So he vaults off her, backing away from Enmyria.

Enmyria comes at him, holding her dagger aloft, then striking down at him with it.

Arthur holds up his bound hands, trying to meet the blow. As blood gushes from the gash Enmyria opens, pain burns sharp, but his hands are free. It's not much of an advantage, not against a woman who knows how to fight while he doesn't, but it's still better than before.

With a grunt, Enmyria closes in again, slashing at the air with her dagger. Quickly, Arthur ducks, and rolls onto her other side, where he finds a lamp he hurls at his enemy. Enmyria dives to the side.

“Enmyria, what the hell is going on in there!” Alvarr yells, rattling the handle.

Enmyria smirks. She doesn't yell for assistance. She says, “I can skewer you without any help.”

A frisson climbs up Arthur's spine. He has no doubt as to her meaning it. The glint in her eyes tells him she wants his blood. As if to confirm this, she comes at him. This time she doesn't hack; she steamrolls right into him, causing him to topple backwards and crash against the floor.

The dagger glints as it arches down towards him. Instinctively Arthur puts his arm up, intercepting Enmyria's. He's strong enough to stop the descent, but with the dagger shining close enough to his face, terror nearly seizes him up, the more so since she bears down with her weight, trying to stab him.

A breath, two, Arthur gathers his strength and flips them. As he does, the blade glints off his shoulder, opening a cut that bleeds warm, though not painful. He works through the discomfort and uses his weight to pin Enmyria's wrists down.

Arthur can feel her resist the moment he has her wrists pinned. Her muscles bulge and before he can adapt to the amount of force she's exerting, she knees him between the legs, bringing tears to his eyes. Then bucking her hips, she unseats him enough to roll them over. But by doing this she loses the dagger.

To stop him from scrabbling for it, she punches him, first in the side, robbing him of all breath, then in the face. More pains blooms around his nose area and he tastes his own blood, sharply tangy, on his tongue. He doesn't let that stop him. He knows with the blindness of panic that if he does, she'll recoup, beat him to the weapon and kill him in as unpleasant a way as she can devise.

So he bucks her off and scrambles back. He moves swiftly, upending a dresser on top of her. As she loses consciousness, Enmyria goes limp.

Arthur blinks with relief and leans back against the wall, breathing hard. He knows he needs to get a move on, especially since Alvarr is trying the door from outside, but his heart rate is spiking and he needs to take a minute to recuperate here.

He takes a few deep breaths before the door gives. Arthur has to form a plan of action or he's done for. One of his guards is out of the fight but that doesn't mean it's going to stay that way long or that the other one, Alvarr, won't take his life now that Arthur has proven difficult to deal with. So he does the only thing he can. He picks up Enmyria's dagger and points it at her throat before Alvarr can make it fully into the room and to him.

“Drop your sword,” Arthur commands when he sees Alvarr come charging at him, “or I'll kill her, no hesitation.”

Alvarr freezes, eyes narrowing to tiny slits that radiate maliciousness. Even so, he doesn't act. He could run Arthur through but doesn't. “Kill her and you're dead.”

“Drop your sword and we'll talk,” Arthur says, deliberately grazing the soft skin of Enmyria's neck with the dagger. Her eyelids twitch, a sign that she's coming to. Arthur must be quick.

“I can kill you with my bare hands,” Alvarr says, moving the sword from one hand to the other. “No need for blades.”

There's no doubting Alvarr. Arthur has no idea of the man's background – the man's past must have been shaped by factors Arthur will never have any idea of – but it certainly involves martial activities. Arthur must come up with an idea before Enmyria wakes and overpowers him. Fast he unloops the belt Enmyria's wearing and throws it at Alvarr. “Bind your hands.”

“No,” Alvarr says, nearly snarling, but grabbing the belt.

“Do it.” Arthur makes his voice as steely as he can. Nausea rises in him, wave upon wave. He doesn't want to be threatening unconscious women. It goes against everything his parents ever taught him. But if he doesn't play his hand well he's dead. “Tie your hands or she dies.”

Alvarr hesitates, fingers curling around the leather. 

Arthur chooses to read that as a sign Alvarr is capitulating. “You stand to gain,” he says, his eyes boring into Alvarr, at once threatening and promising respite.

Alvarr binds his hands. 

“Two loops,” Arthur orders, pressing the point of the dagger against skin that wells red when he breaks its surface. Even though he gets dizzy at the sight, Arthur adds, “Tighter.”

With a grunt, Alvarr tugs on the belt till it's wound so tight around his wrists his skin gets whiter around the leather loops.

Trusting that that's enough, Arthur vaults off Enmyria, thrusts the dagger at Alvarr, hitting his shoulder at a glance, and throws himself at him, driving himself full force against him until he's got Alvarr toppling over. 

The man's bleeding profusely, grunting and that's why Arthur thinks, his body gives. Even so, with his free hand, Alvarr tries to grab at Arthur's leg.

It's enough to trip him. Overbalanced, Arthur slams to the ground. He tries to catch his fall with his hands but he lands on his stomach. His breath is knocked out of him and his vision whitens for a second or two. It takes a few inexpressibly long seconds for it to get back to normal. To free himself, he kicks wildly, sticking a foot on Alvarr's throat, or at least he thinks so, given the gargling noises, and the soft yield of flesh. 

The hold on his calf gives. Arthur raises his gaze. The door to the cabin is open; he can flee. He's not sure how far he can go since he's on an alien ship adrift in space, but it's imperative he go. He needs to if he wants to stay alive and he must if he wants to find Merlin and ensure that he, too, is safe. 

Struggling to breathe, he reaches up with his hands, and gains his elbows. With a push off them, he's on his feet. And then he runs out and down a narrow deck. 

There's no point trying to get outside. Even though it looks like one, this isn't a real ship. There's no oceans it's fending. What he must do is find Merlin, save him, and then they can think of a means of escape. Trying to make no noise he runs down the lower deck. When he hears some, he ducks into a hatch and waits.

Borden stalks down the deck, his cloak billowing after him like a knight's cape. For a moment the situation is so far-fetched, outside the scope of his reality, resembling Star Wars more than real life that he can't even think, but the memory of Merlin soon shakes him out of that torpor.

He must whip up a plan and do so fast. How long will it take Borden to find out that Alvarr and Enmyria are out of commission? Surely not long. Arthur must find Merlin first. Peering round the corner, he waits for Borden to disappear round the bend then he sprints in the opposite direction.

There's a few hatches and doors lining the deck. Arthur bypasses the open ones and tries the closed ones. He isn't in a position to kick the doors open, that would make too much noise, but what he does do is put his ear to the door to detect noise. None ever comes from them so he moves to the next door and the next.

At last he comes to one that seems bolted shut. Pressing his ear against the wood he hears a low moan come from deep within the chamber he can't access. Just for the sake of thoroughness Arthur tries the handle. Of course it doesn't give. “Come on, open,” he says, jiggling the door. The door shakes. Arthur's not sure it's from the pressure he put on it but this seems like a positive outcome. He jiggles the door once again till it dances in the frame. “Please,” he prays, needing this door to yield. As if in answer to his panic, the door slips open. Arthur is quick to duck into the darkness.

When his eyes adapts to the gloom, he sees Merlin. He's been laid down on a table. While he mumbles words that make zero sense to Arthur, his head goes from side to side He doesn't even look up or tense when Arthur approaches him. This is wrong. “Merlin,” Arthur says, cupping Merlin's face. 

Merlin's so hot to the touch Arthur nearly recoils. “What the hell,” he says, more to himself than Merlin. Merlin was fine but a couple of hours ago. “What happened to you?”

Merlin blinks but Arthur's not sure he's recognised him. “Earth,” is all he says, then he's interrupted by a string of coughing that doesn't seem to subside. 

“Earth, what, Merlin,” Arthur says, cradling his cheek. “You're making no sense.”

Merlin turns his head into the touch. “Must go.”

“You must go back to Earth?” Arthur asks, wondering whether he's got Merlin's garbled message right. “Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes.” Merlin nods his head but winces when he does. He screws his eyes shut. His breath is belaboured and Arthur is worried for him, but he manages to say a few words. “I need... I'm not used. My magic's not—”

Arthur can't say he's understood much of what Merlin is trying to convey but he's got one thing down. Merlin needs to go back to Earth. “How, though,” he says. “Should I hijack this ship?”

Merlin nuzzles into his hand even though his body is all coiled and fine tremors shake him up.

“Merlin, please.”

“Pray,” is what Merlin says, his hands curled into fists, his body arching off the table.

“I hope you don't mean to say it's hopeless,” Arthur says, looking around him for weapons he can use, a hiding place, anything.

“No, no,” Merlin says, opening his eyes to catch Arthur's. He's all a-sweat and moving his lips without any real words coming out. Until a few more do, “Arthur, no.”

The deck outside creaks so Arthur is compelled to cover Merlin's mouth to shut him up. He can't explain why he's doing this to a man who's barely conscious; this means he can only hope Merlin isn't too freaked out by Arthur's behaviour. As quietly as possible Arthur says, “Shh, Merlin, shh, it's all right. It's for your own good.”

All the while, he grazes Merlin's forehead with his mouth. It seems to soothe Merlin so he keeps doing it until the noises from outside die down. When they do, he drops his hand and says, “Merlin, I know it's hard to focus, but there was something you were telling me.”

Merlin's pupils narrow in the dark, sparking with a lost memory. “You need to pray,” he says, stuttering over the consonants he's trembling so much. “You need to pray.”

“Is this how we get home?” Arthur says, highly sceptical that is going to work.

“You need,” Merlin wheezes, grabbing him by his neck and squeezing, “to direct this ship with prayer. Druid ship.”

Arthur has never heard of ships that go where you want them to. But to be quite honest, before he met Merlin he'd thought aliens an H.G. Wells fantasy. So he can give this a try. Focusing his thoughts on where he wants to be, picturing it in his head even, he prays. He does it with words and silently, relying on his need to save Merlin to let his prayer soar.

The ship lurches, sending Arthur flying into the wall behind him. It rumbles and creaks as if it's about to split apart at the seams. Arthur can't gather the wherewithal to panic though. His vision darkens and narrows and narrows, until he can't even summon enough attention to wonder whether his prayer worked.

And then darkness encroaches.

 

****

 

Merlin groans and sits up. His head hurts like someone has hit him over it with a big cricket bat. “Ouch,” he says, fingering the area. Warmth exudes from his palm the moment it touches skin and the dull ache in his skull is soothed. That's when Merlin realises his magic is back, which means that he must be on Earth once more.

“Arthur,” he says, gathering himself up. Somehow he ended up sprawled on a patch of grass in a field. He can't see the ship they were on nor any trace of Arthur. “Arthur,” he yells again, this time instinctively more worried.

“Over here!” Arthur calls out with a moan.

Magic rushing back to him, Merlin sees an image of Arthur in his mind's eye. He's sprawling in a gully surrounded at the edges by reedy trees. He looks all right but Merlin runs to him all the same, using his magic to orientate him. When he sees Arthur, he slides all the way over to him, ending up rolling down the last stretch of the way in an unsightly heap. 

He ends up face to face with Arthur, who breaks into a smile and giggles. “With all your powers you still can't run properly.”

Merlin frowns and smiles at the same time. “I'm so glad you're okay, a little less glad you're picking on me though. I came to save you.”

“I know,” Arthur says, eyes twinkling. “Thank you. But on that ship I saved _your_ arse.”

Merlin's face to face with Arthur so he leans in and closes his lips around Arthur's; they're chapped and hot, thrilling him the moment contact happens. Heat travels through him when Arthur opens against him, his tongue pushing slyly at his. The kiss makes Merlin's chest hurt with something that expands under his ribcage till he thinks he's fit to burst. 

Before drawing back he traces the side of Arthur's neck with the pads of his fingers. “What do we do now?” 

“Have you seen Borden?”

“Not since the ship crashed here,” Arthur says, looking around for traces of their absent enemy.

“He must still be around,” Merlin says, trying to locate the ship himself.

However much he scans the area, he can't see it. This means they must have been thrown or ejected before it landed. But Borden can't be far either. “We've got to find him and stop him.”

“I agree,” Arthur says, picking himself up and Merlin with him. “But we need to be clever about it. Plan.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, recollecting Borden's speech to him. “He wants to colonise earth and get rid of most of humanity to make it Drakonia mark two. I don't see how we can take time out to plan.”

Arthur grabs his shoulders. “Because we must. Think about it. The man's dangerous.”

Merlin's come to that conclusion himself and there's something else weighing on his mind as well. “You know, I always thought I had magic because I was different. Then I thought I had it because I was an alien. But now it turns out that Drakonians didn't have any powers on Drakonia.”

Arthur arches a speculative eyebrow. “And this means...”

“Drakonians get magical when they're on Earth.”

Merlin can see the cogs spinning in Arthur's brain and can pin down the moment he makes the connection because he blanches. “So it follows that he has magic on earth too. And that's what he's backing his threats with,” Arthur deduces.

“Yes.” Merlin nods vigorously. “And he's got two companions. Imagine what he can do with that much power.”

“All the more reason to recoup,” Arthur says. “We need to think tactically.”

“Tactically?”

“My father's a general,” Arthur tells him, leading him up the gully. “He wanted me to enlist like he had. I never did, of course. Had to pitch a battle to become a journalist, but some things have stuck.”

“So,” Merlin says, following behind Arthur. “What do you suggest we do?”

“We need time to devise a strategy,” Arthur tells him, turning around when they've cleared the crevasse. “And since you're our secret Earth saving weapon, we've got to hide you till we've got a plan that will allow you to best three magically powered aliens.”

Merlin flounders, unable to think of such a place, one offering shelter to a person like him. “But where?” 

Arthur grins big. “Wait and see.”

 

**** 

 

Arthur turns the key in the lock and opens the door, ushering Merlin in. The curtains have been drawn and the air is a bit stale, but Arthur reckons the place is habitable and comfortable enough. 

“So,” Arthur says, looking to Merlin for clues as to his level of satisfaction, “this is it.”

“Do you live here?” Merlin asks, nose up in the air as he scans Arthur's place. 

“No,” Arthur says, dropping the keys on the dresser. “I come here to write.” He throws a longing look at his desk, smiles softly to himself. “It's quiet here.”

“I like it,” Merlin says, nodding firmly to himself, chin thrust out.

“You don't have to sound complimentary,” Arthur says, swiping a layer of dust off a shelf. “It's not particularly clean and there's no food in the pantry.”

The shadow of a smile playing off the angles of Merlin's features, he walks up to Arthur and takes his hand. “It's going to be fine, okay? I realise you haven't been here in a while.”

“I can make you some food,” Arthur says, Merlin's touch putting stupid butterflies in his belly.

Merlin cocks his head. “You realise I'm fine now, don't you?” 

Arthur draws his gaze away; his jaw firms. “You weren't fine on that ship.”

“I know, but I'm fine now.” To belie that Merlin's stomach rumbles voraciously.

“You are hungry,” Arthur says, sniggering at Merlin's attempt to hide that. 

“I may not have had food in a while.”

Arthur tuts. “He's basically a super hero and he can't even look after himself properly.”

Before Merlin can complain about Arthur's words, Arthur ducks into the low pantry and starts riffling the shelves. “I've got tinned pineapple, tinned mixed veggies, tinned beans. You can have beans on toast without the toast, or sweet corn.”

Merlin comes up behind him, forcing Arthur against the PVC shelving, his arm going round his middle. Merlin's presence at his back stirs his blood. Breath hissing out of him, he tips his head forward. Merlin's lips suck and tease at his skin.

Arthur takes a shuddering breath then exhales. The play of Merlin's touch on him stirs his senses. He reacts even though he'd planned to take care of Merlin first and foremost. “Merlin,” he says. “You need to eat.”

“That can wait.” Merlin presses against him, his breath hot against Arthur's ear. Desperate to get closer, Arthur arches back against him, feeling the heat of Merlin plastered to his back.

“Okay, let’s say it can wait,” Arthur breathes out, his chest rising with his exhalation. “What happens next?”

Merlin's hand skates lower, down his chest and abdomen, resting at his waist. “Whatever you want to happen,” Merlin says low in his ear, biting his ear lobe.

“I want you to touch my cock,” Arthur says, less chivalrous than he thought he'd be after the scare he's had regarding Merlin.

Merlin grips his belt from behind, undoes it, drops it.

Arthur's trousers sag at the waist, slip lower when Merlin drags the zip down. His hand goes to his cock, closes around it, a shock of warmth. Merlin's breath whispers in his ear.

Sweat breaking on his skin, heartbeat climbing steadily fast, Arthur grinds against Merlin's hand. Merlin pushes into him, hard, the hard ridge of his cock outlined against his body. He leans close, licks up the side of Arthur's face to his ear, sucks the soft part of the lobe into his mouth, then sinks his teeth in. Arthur thrusts, sharp and jerky. 

At first, Merlin only holds his cock in a loose grip, his knuckles rasping gently over Arthur's lower stomach. When Merlin touches him, Arthur murmurs nonsense testifying to how great Merlin feels. As he leans against the shelving, Arthur's hair fans across his forehead 

Merlin squeezes his cock tightly at the bottom and slowly slides his hand up and down. He twists his hand over the tip and then back down to Arthur's balls, cradling them before letting his touch travel to his cock once more. 

Under the onslaught, Arthur's spine almost melts. It's an effort to stand, an effort to think, an effort to do anything but seek Merlin's hot palm. Reaching down, Arthur links his fingers with Merlin's to stroke himself.

Moaning, Arthur thrusts his hips harder, making the shelving shake. “Your hands,” he pants. “Your hands...”

“My hands are what?” Merlin prompts him, the speed and pressure he applies decreasing, so that Arthur is left wanting more.

“I— I—” says Arthur, thoughts are too scattered for him to grasp any. It doesn't matter though; Arthur's hips move of their own volition and even Merlin's slower caress is enough. He throws his head back and opens his mouth to let out a sibilant hiss. He comes, sending splatters of come over Merlin's palm and knuckles, staining his own.

Breath rushing out of him fast, he turns around and attacks Merlin's belt with a determination to return the favour that's certainly warranted given how good Merlin made it for him. He undoes the belt and unbuttons the jeans, careful of Merlin's erection.

Merlin hisses when Arthur's lips find his neck and once more when Arthur's hands find his prick, hard, and leaking. “Want to make you come like you made me,” he says against Merlin's skin.

“Got—” Merlin pants “—nothing against it.”

Arthur walks Merlin backwards, out of the pantry and into the open plan lounge they came from. A little bit hurried but not without care Arthur eases Merlin down the sofa. 

Merlin sighs when his back hits the soft mounds of Arthur's old recliner. 

Arthur smiles, pleased that Merlin's at least enjoying the pleasures of his home – Arthur's always thought of this refuge as such – and moves over him, easing his jeans down. 

While Arthur works at them Merlin lifts his hips. 

Through the cotton fabric of his underwear, Arthur cups him.

“Arthur,” Merlin rasps as the briefs slide lower down his thighs.

“Let me,” Arthur says, easing off Merlin's shoes, pulling his jeans off and settling between his splayed legs. Before doing anything else, he reaches up with his hands, running them up and down Merlin's thighs, cupping his knees, till Merlin licks his lips and shifts, hitching his hips upwards. His cock bobs free and Merlin pants and pants, clearly waiting for Arthur to do something. 

Arthur lets the moment stretch till Merlin's eyes get spirited enough for him to know he wants to come and that any postponing wouldn't be teasing but torture. So he palms his cock, watching it lengthen even more.

Arthur hears Merlin's breath catch in his throat the moment Arthur he skims his fingers over the tip of his prick, then along the underside. Pride swells in Arthur at being able to coax that reaction out of Merlin. As Arthur's touch grows bolder, Merlin grips the arm of the sofa. 

“Good?” Arthur asks and Merlin sticks a hand out to curl his fingers in Arthur’s hair.

When a sharper tug prickles at his scalp, Arthur gazes upwards, his eyes latching and holding Merlin’s whilst he makes it on his knees. He glides his hand lower, carefully easing Merlin’s prick upright, sealing his mouth around the tip.

“Fuck,” Merlin says, his head rolling back on the sofa's rest and moving from side to side.

Working more pressure with his lips, Arthur goes down on Merlin's cock until his nose nudges at his pubic hair. As he backs up again, he laps at the head with his tongue then nips lightly at the skin with his teeth. “Is this working for you?” Arthur asks, breathing on the wet tip.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, his thighs cording and bunching. “Just... I like it wetter, and suck more around the head.”

“Okay I think I got it,” Arthur says, slipping Merlin into his mouth again, using suction and tongue. 

Merlin's grip on his hair becomes steely; his eyes close with a flutter of lashes and Arthur knows Merlin likes it. And when Merlin moans, long and throaty and with no thought to shame, Arthur is sure he's going about it right. It's empowering this feeling, giving someone pleasure until they're worked raw. And there's more to be gained from it because this is Merlin he's doing this to and Arthur wants Merlin to experience the best Arthur has to give, sexually or otherwise. He wants to show him a good time, cherish him. He'd protect him too if Arthur could do such a thing, what with Merlin being as powerful as he is.

“Not going to have staying power,” Merlin says, his voice pitched into a broken wail.

“Doesn't matter,” Arthur says, briefly releasing Merlin to say, “I want you to feel good.”

Merlin moans.

So Arthur licks his cock slowly, and flicks his tongue around the crown, swallows him, making slow strokes over his length, till all he can smell is Merlin and all he can taste is the tangy taste of his pre-come on his tongue.

Merlin jerks his hips up, so he's feeding Arthur more of him. “Fuck,” he says at last, more exhalation than word.

Arthur keeps squeezing the root of Merlin’s prick with his fingers, mouth closed tightly around the tip, exercising thorough suction. 

Merlin's thrashing makes Arthur's heartbeat accelerate in his ears. He's the one doing this to Merlin, this completely fantastic, magical person. His blood is roaring high when Merlin releases in his mouth.

When they're breathing a little bit less hard, Merlin pulls Arthur up from the floor and onto the sofa. He kisses him deeply, shivering, until he draws back and looks at Arthur with a funny but sweet look in his eyes. “You know, we may be in danger and I may be about to betray my newly found father's legacy by failing to protect the dragon egg, but I'm happy.” Merlin's eyes narrow in a sea of crinkles. “Because you make me feel... human.”

“Merlin,” Arthur starts, grabbing his face. “You're a wonderful Drakonian and I love that about you.”

Merlin manages to dip his head even within the cradle of Arthur's hands. “I know the magic's flashy—”

Arthur stops him before Merlin can think, god forbid, he's attracted to a gimmick. “I like the magic.” Arthur's good with words; he writes for a living. He's a little bit less good at conveying his feelings. But he gives it a try because Merlin needs to know. “But I'm not in this for a parlour trick.” He swallows when Merlin lifts his head and matches him gaze for gaze. “I'm in it... I'd only be with someone for them. Because I want to. That's why you're with someone. Because you love them.”

Merlin's face crumples into a grin that involves all of his facial muscles. “Is this your way of telling me that you love me?”

Arthur playfully scrapes his knuckles across Merlin's scalp, raising his hair into a jungle of tufts resembling a bird's nest. “Shut up, Merlin, and let me get some food in your alien belly.”

They end up eating beans and crackers on the sofa, a blanket on their knees. They fall asleep on the same sofa. Before Arthur snoozes off, he's struck by a thought. It doesn't feel as though the world's about to end. It feels as though, with Merlin at his side, it's about to begin.

 

**** 

 

“Ambrosius,” the voice in his head wakes Merlin. 

Trying not to jostle Arthur, Merlin sits up and blink.

“Ambrosius,” the voice goes again and this time Merlin has no doubt about it. Someone's talking to him and it's in his head. It's never happened before either so he has no doubt as to who it is: someone who shares the same powers as him.

“Borden.”

“I'm glad we established a connection,” Borden taunts him. “This is going to make what I've got to do easier.”

“What are you talking about?” Merlin says in a low voice designed not to wake Arthur.

“I have your parents.”

Merlin scrambles over Arthur's still sleeping form and leaves the sofa. He curses mentally. The connection between him and Borden is so good that he hears Borden’s mocking laugh. “Calm down, Ambrosius,” he says, the mockery still resounding clear in his tones. “I won't harm them if you give me the dragon egg. I might even let you join me, despite your wrecking my ship and forcing me adrift on earth.”

Merlin doesn't take the bait. “If you touch them—”

“Come here with the egg and nothing will happen to your parents.”

Merlin feels the connection he's sharing with Borden flicker. “Here where?” he shouts in his mind. 

“Your childhood home, Ambrosius.” With that the connection snaps off.

However unwelcome Borden's voice floating in his mind is, the absence of it sends him into a right panic. For if Borden's not talking to him then he might be busy doing something else. When that something else possibly involves hurting Gaius and Alice he'd rather have Borden read the phone book in his head twenty-four seven. Thinking of what Borden might do with the powers the earth must be currently gifting him with, how he might be hurting the two people who've always loved him unconditionally, sends Merlin to his knees.

He sniffles and his shoulders shake so much he only wishes to stop them. He mustn’t wake Arthur so he needs to keep a rein on himself but can't. He can't because he knows what magic can do, how devastating it can be. Once when he was a kid of fifteen he unintentionally laid a field off Vesterey to waste because he'd been angry at some school mates of his who'd bullied him. He hadn't meant to but that field stayed fallow for three years.

If that's the measure of a Drakonian's power on Earth he doesn't even want to consider what might happen to Gaius and Alice.

Fists balled, he closes his eyes but tears track down his face. He wipes at his nose and eyes, waits for the shake to subside and the morbid images that lodge in his mind to dissolve. When he has more control, he pushes off his knees.

Silently he gathers his belt and does up his shoes. He's buttoning up his shirt prior to searching for a jacket he can wear outside when Arthur's voice freezes him.

“Going somewhere?”

Mouth falling open, Merlin whips around. When he takes in Arthur's angry gaze his own eyes search the floor. “I didn't want to wake you.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says and there's such disappointment in his face that Merlin blurts out, “Borden has my parents.”

“So you were thinking of doing what exactly?”

“You know I can't leave them in his hands.”

Arthur pushes his chin out, his face screwed up in a wary scowl. He clears his throat as if he's about to say something, but clamps his mouth shut, as though reining in the words. He turns to look out the window, saying. “Why not tell me then?”

Merlin could lie but he doesn't want to. “Because this is something I must do alone.”

“I thought,” Arthur says and his jaw quivers as he does it, “that we were a team.”

“Arthur, you can't deal with three magical people wanting to kill you,” Merlin says, perhaps shouts, because that's the truth and he's maybe about to lose his parents and he doesn't want to add Arthur to the list too. “You'd be dead meat in seconds.”

Arthur stalks up to him, places his hands on both of Merlin's shoulders. “I don't need protecting. I've always been able to look after myself.”

“In normal circumstances I'm sure you do great,” Merlin tells him, wanting Arthur to understand the real power behind his magic. “But you've only seen the bright side of magic. In the wrong hands, Arthur... In the wrong hands it can kill, maim, lay to waste.”

“And you think I'm so stupid as to not realise that if you can light up the ocean then you can devastate Earth?” Arthur splutters, a hand going through his hair. “Just, just what kind of idiot do you take me for?”

“I'm not taking you for an idiot,” Merlin says, dancing from foot to foot, reaching out for Arthur but then dropping his hands. “I'm just... taking you for what you are, a man without magic.”

“Marry Borden then!” Arthur shouts, distancing himself from him with long backwards steps. “He's like you, his plan should be manna for you, a planet populated by uberpeople with magic.”

This time Merlin takes both of Arthur's hands in his. “It's not like that, it's not like that. I love you.”

Arthur starts, a shattered sound vibrating from his throat. “You do?”

Like the stupid thing that it is, Merlin's heart flutters in his chest. His breath grows ragged and he says, “Of course, I do. You, you're clever, and smart and funny. You're handsome and kind, and ridiculously brave wanting to face Borden.” Merlin takes a breath to be able to continue on his rant as to why Arthur's fantastic. “And you're not freaked out by who I am. You know how many people accept me as I am? I guess that before you the number was 3 or 4, tops and with restrictions.”

“I like you the way you are,” Arthur says, his mouth gentling, slanting into a smile. “No restrictions. I never want you to change.”

“Then, please, listen to me,” Merlin says, squeezing Arthur's fingers. “You can't do anything against Borden. He could literally snap your neck with a snap of his fingers, with a thought even.”

“I won't stay home and wait, hiding,” Arthur says and he says it with such determination that Merlin knows it's a deal breaker for him. That if Merlin excludes Arthur now, then he's lost him. “I want to help. Especially if the world's going to shit.”

Merlin huffs a laugh then sobers. “There's one thing you can do. No, one that I need you to.”

Arthur looks sceptical, the corners of his mouth flattening. “Something you need me to do away from danger?”

“I can't be sure you'll be fully away from danger,” Merlin says. As long as he's not aware of Borden's plans he can't be certain of Arthur's safety. But if he has to guess Arthur likes it that way. “But it's something that needs doing.”

“Spit it out.”

“I want you to go to St Kilda and get the dragon egg from the vessel,” Merlin says, thinking it's not safe somewhere Borden can trace it. “And then hide it.”

Arthur's eyes shine with interest, then a cloud passes over his features. “Merlin, there's an entire team of archaeologists guarding that thing, not to mention the Questing Beast protecting it.”

Merlin smiles. “I didn't say it would be easy. Just that it needed to be done.”

Arthur nods firmly. “Okay, all right. I'll do it.”

Arthur's easy acceptance scares Merlin a little bit. He can't forget how the Beast nearly killed Arthur   
in the first place. But the Questing Beast, dumb as it is, is less dangerous than Borden and associates. Besides, Merlin thinks, as he studies Arthur's cottage, he can give Arthur an edge. In fact, he proceeds to do exactly so. He walks up to the fireplace and picks up one of the swords crossed and hung above it.

“Merlin,” Arthur says taking two steps towards him when Merlin tries the blunt edge with his fingers.

The blade doesn't cut so Merlin lets his magic zing along the metal. When he touches the steel again a fine gash opens on his finger. Merlin sucks the blood in his mouth. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, grabbing his arm as if he were a child that needed to be kept away from the sharp object. “What the hell are you doing?”

Merlin releases his finger with a pop. “Testing the weaponry.”

“You cut yourself for no reason!”

“Not for no reason,” Merlin says, though he acknowledges that he might have been more prudent dealing with the newly sharp edge.

“I don't get it.”

“Your antique ornament is now a special magical sword that will kill anything that doesn't belong to Earth.” So saying, he gives the sword to an astounded Arthur.

 

****

 

The passage aboard Isolde's boat isn't as rough as the previous one, for the night isn't as stormy, but Arthur is more unnerved than the last time. There's more at stake now and there's no way Arthur isn't aware of that. 

He paces the length of his cabin, literally cut off from the world, wondering whether Merlin's made it and freed his parents or has been killed by Borden, Enmyria and Alvarr's joint forces. However powerful Merlin is three against one is not nice odds.

He's nearly dug a hole in the tiny carpet at the foot of his berth by the time Isolde pops up to tell him, “We're approaching St Kilda.”

“We're not docking in port this time,” he tells her, going over their pact once more.

“I can anchor in the nearest bay but if the weather turns...”

Arthur has made plans for that too. He means to rush to the cave, get the egg, and use one of the boats that are still in the jetty at the main harbour to rejoin Isolde. That involves stealing but he's okay with that. At this point the egg is more important than legalities. But if Isolde makes off, then he's stuck on St Kilda. “I understand, just wait off the coast, please.”

“If a gale rises it'll smash my boat against the rocks.”

Arthur walks up to Isolde, makes sure to meet her eyes. His honesty about the urgency of the situation is all he's got to convince her. “Please, don't heave anchor until I'm back.”

“I don't know what you're up to,” she says, biting her lower lip. “But this is crazier than anything I've done before and I've pulled many to put one off James Tristan.”

“I swear this is important,” Arthur says, making his tone as meaningful as he can. “Let's just say that it's a life and death situation and it involves more than just me, more like humanity at large.”

Isolde must have connected the dots for she nods and says, “I'll wait.”

When Arthur disembarks he does so armed with several maps of the island, the sword Merlin magicked, a rucksack full of provisions and a torch. He makes his way up the beach and before he's started on the incline leading into the interior he checks his coordinates on the maps. 

He's not particularly good at this kind of stuff, certainly not at orientating himself by the moon and stars, but he did grow up with a general who thought camping SAS style was a great idea for a family holiday. His young self had learnt how to hunt, find the perfect spot for pitching a tent, and gone through survival games just to please his father.

Despite years spent in uni libraries and then behind a desk, all that open air knowledge comes back to him. He finds a path that's far enough from the main one he won't be caught by the expedition people and not so roundabout that he'd have to trek across the whole island to make it to the cave.

He's glad he brought a torch because despite the moonlight, which casts an eerie glow upon the island, you can't see the stretch of countryside ahead, not past the immediate vicinity anyway. Nothing would be easier than putting your foot in bog hole. 

A wide arc of torchlight guiding him Arthur advances.

Towards midnight, he makes it to the halfway point. Since he is a bit winded he sits on a rock to recuperate. Rucksack on the ground between his legs, sword propped against the base of the boulder, he rifles inside his bag. His hands close around the sandwich that he packed. Before long, he's eating and drinking, the rest and the food giving him energy. 

When he's done eating he secures the water back in the rucksack, picks up the sword Merlin enchanted, and starts again.

The moon's starting to wane by the time he reaches the cave. It hasn't changed much from the last time he was here and he doesn't see why it should have. It hasn't been long since Merlin came into his life and changed it completely.

Breathing in the mustier air of the cave, Arthur unsheathes his sword and takes a step inside it. He remembers the artefact's location but isn't about to rush towards it. He has to watch out for the Questing Beast. This time Merlin won't be here to heal him if the creature gets the better of him.

Sword at the ready, torch in one hand, he begins advancing cautiously towards the depths of the cave. His steps echo hollowly in the void. “Shit,” he says, no better way to attract a wondering monster guarding magical vessels than making all this noise. 

His fingers clamping on the hilt, he moves ahead, remembering the shape of the cave and directing his slow steps towards the corner he remembers the vessel to be in.

He's ready to swear he is dead close when a dull roar fends the air. Not a moment later, the Questing Beast comes lumbering at him. As soon as it sights him, it drives towards him, jaws snapping in an effort to bite him.

Hoping to scare it away, Arthur brings his sword windmilling over his head just as the beast comes in range. The flashing of the blade causes it to waddle backwards. Arthur is already readying himself to inch forward, when the creature renews its attacks.

The Questing Beast's head snaps forward. To dance away from its fangs Arthur drops his torch and is plunged into darkness, the strange roaring bark of the monster telling him it's close and that he's in danger.

A shot of fear pierces his heart.

The creature's foul breath makes the air stink. Then its jaw closes an inch from Arthur's face and Arthur realises he's past caring about the stench. He needs to have his defences up.

A wrong move and he feels the monster's saliva scorch his hand. Another loud hiss drowns his hearing. He can't go on like this. It's too dark and the monster too near, toying with him. One false step and he'll be bitten.

Once again Arthur lifts his sword, this time with the both of his hands, and pokes at the air with it. He does so until the blade impacts something, something column-like and hard, and hears a roar coming from the Beast. 

Hot blood scalds his fingertips. Arthur barely has time to realise it's the creature's, when the latter comes rumbling at him again, making the earth under Arthur's feet tremble. Arthur has to stop it but knows he couldn't unless he can direct the thrusts of his sword. And for that to happen he needs to recover his torch.

Just as the big mass of the beast charges him, the cave lights up blue. Arthur turns his head and sees a blue sphere hovering beside him. It emanates the light flooding the cave. “Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, overjoyed at finding Merlin helping him as much as he can from far away, before lunging with the sword.

*****

 

The old house looks as it has always had – a white building with a slate sloping roof that's buffeted by gales and eroded by the salt air of the isle.

Usually this is a welcome sight that fills his heart with a sense of happiness and belonging. Today it does no such thing because Borden is standing in front of it between a wan looking Gaius and Alice.

They aren't only pale and worn. There's a huge bruise on Alice's forehead, encompassing her eye. Gaius, too, looks the worse for wear. There's blood caked at the side of his mouth. It was washed away some time prior to this but Merlin can still detect the traces of it.

The sight of the people who've raised him being in such a condition makes him seethe. Rage knots his face, his insides. It blurs his thoughts and heightens his adrenaline. “Let them go!” he roars at Borden, anger fuelling his lungs.

His eyes going golden, Borden just laughs at him. “As I said, give me the egg and I'll stop targeting your putative family, Ambrosius.”

“Merlin, don't give it to him,” Gaius shouts. “It'd be the end of the world as we know it.”

“Listen to Gaius, Merlin,” Alice adds, starting forwards then stopping short as if she's walked into wall.

Merlin knows they're right but he needs to save them all the same. He'd never sacrifice them. “I'll kill you,” he tells Borden just to let him know who he's dealing with. “I'm not joking.”

Borden guffaws in answer. The sound is accompanied by the appearance of Alvarr and Enmyria. Cloaks billowing after them, they step round the house, coming at opposite corners, and flank Borden. “How are you going to do that, uh?” Borden asks, waving his hands about. “Oh wait, the problem is that you're as stubborn as your father. I'll kill you as I killed him.”

At this point Merlin can't say he knows what he's doing. Wildly, he lashes out with his magic, letting his current feelings mix with it, knocking Borden backwards with a blast of air that takes a great deal of energy from him. 

With a spine cracking crunch Borden hits the stairs. 

Alice and Gaius run towards him but Merlin shouts at them, because now's not the right time for this. “Hide, you need to run and hide.”

And he's right in his advice. For as soon as he says that, Alvarr and Enmyria come at him, using their magic, launching a blistering spray of dirt, twigs and small stones at him.

It sends him sprawling, causes him to seal his eyes shut. But it doesn't wound him or hamper him greatly. All of his body seems to be in working order at least. And that is how he understands. Alvarr and Enmyria aren't as strong as Borden. They can hit him, destroy objects, but their blasts have no annihilating power.

Eyes still closed against the deluge hitting him, Merlin summons his magic under his skin and pushes it all out. He squints through the diminishing whirlwind and sees the red-hot bolt of energy he sent down the electricity wires surrounding the house leap at Alvarr. It's a wave of heavy voltage. When it hits him, he shakes in place and crashes down. 

Feeling no pity or compunction to stop, Merlin watches Alvarr seize. He's cold inside and observing this scene does nothing to move him. Enmyria and Borden though are having none of it. She cusses, and curses him to eternal oblivion. When that doesn't stop Merlin, as if posturing would, Enmyria rushes to Borden and takes his hand. Together they latch on their magic. 

Merlin knows because he senses it taint the air and touch his skin. Needing to fend it off, Merlin stops targeting Alvarr. But he doesn't do it in time to counter Borden and Enmyria's attack. They levitate the roof off his parent's cottage and fling it at him. 

Following its trajectory with his eyes, Merlin can do nothing but call his magic back to heel to protect him. Instinctively, he raises his arm and ducks, finding a hollow in the ground to seek shelter in. 

And then he waits for impact.

 

****

 

At the last moment before impact, he ducks low and slices his sword through the beast's chest. The beast raises its claws to strike him down. While they rise, a wail soars. Arthur sinks his sword through the beast from sternum to pelvis. It falls dead, its carcass littering the ground. The red of its blood mixes with the hard soil of the cave's floor.

Panting, exhausted from the time spent locked in combat with the wild beast, Arthur lets the sword clatter to the floor. He has half a mind to sink to his haunches and stay there to recover. He doesn't allow himself that. He's too well aware of the priorities. He must march on.

After having checked that he hasn't been bitten or grazed during the close encounter with the monster, he sets off again, making for the deep of the cave, where the vessel landed with Merlin twenty and some odd years ago.

Arthur is a pace or two away from it and about to liberate the egg when a figure appears from swirling mists that weren't been there before. “Beware, mortal, of what you are doing.”

Not knowing whether he's facing a ghost or another monster, Arthur drops his hands and wishes he hadn't left the sword behind. “I'm only moving the egg,” he says, trying not to tempt fate. “To take it somewhere safe, where Borden can't get to it.”

“The egg is the last dragon egg,” the ghost says in a solemn tone. “The last spawn of a great race. I can't let you touch it when I was at such pains to save it.”

Arthur doesn't mistake the sentence for anything but what it is, a threat. He must tread carefully. This entity before him might be a ghost but Arthur doesn't doubt it can harm him. “I realise that. But Merlin said we had to secure it.”

“Merlin.” The entity's face morphs into a mask of sadness. “Is that... is that the name Earthlings have given to Ambrose?”

That's when Arthur guesses. It doesn't take much, considering Merlin's past words to him, his recounting of his life story and what he knows about his origins. “You're Merlin's father, Balinor.”

“Yes, yes I am,” the entity says with a kinder tone, his face melting into softness. “Or was. I'd never thought I'd say the words.”

The prospect gives Arthur some hope, not much, considering this man looks like a warrior ready to do battle – and put Arthur down – for his cause, but some. He'll probably consider Merlin's decision and allow Arthur to carry their plan out. “Then as Merlin's father, you must understand. Merlin wants to make sure the egg is safe from your enemies, Borden and—”

“Borden's the one who killed me,” Balinor says, with a flick of the muscles around his mouth. “He's dangerous because he's devious, a liar. He'll try to soften you up first and then strike.”

“Then you know why we need to surprise him,” Arthur says, eyeing both Balinor and the egg. If Balinor lets him take it, then all's well and good. But he's not about to scupper his and Merlin's plans just because Balinor opposes them.

“How do I know you'll keep the dragon egg safe?” Balinor questions with an arch turn of his eyebrow.

“I will.” Arthur shrugs his shoulders, a touch of likely misplaced defiance to the gesture. “That's all I can say.”

“Dragons are no part of your culture,” Balinor says, in the same strain as before. “Why would you care for the egg? Why would you protect it as it should be protected?”

“You're right,” Arthur says, acknowledging the truth in Balinor's words, “dragons aren't a part of me like they're a part of you. But I'm going to protect this egg.”

“Why would you?” The question might be redundant but Arthur has a feeling Arthur's answer is of capital import to Balinor.

“Because it's important to Merlin,” Arthur says, meaning to impress upon Balinor how much Merlin wants this to happen.

Balinor tilts his head, a shade as if of understanding colouring his features. “Why?” he asks, pressing the point, “is what Merlin wants important to you?”

Arthur's always preferred to keep his feelings close but his sensibilities have little to do with saving the planet. Getting the egg is part of that. “Because I care for him, deeply.”

Fortunately, Balinor doesn't mind the swallow that follows the admission. And he doesn't count Arthur's blushing against him. If anything Arthur's less than sure footed way of going about revealing his feelings seems to convince him of Arthur's sincerity, since he says, “I believe you do. It was my hope that Merlin would find a life on Earth—”

“For him to be able to do so, the planet must survive Borden's attack,” Arthur says, now pressing Balinor to let him do what he must.

“Then take the egg,” Balinor allows, taking a step away from the vessel that once bore Merlin here.

Arthur treads onwards carefully, touches his hand to the egg – it feels like stone – and then carefully picks it up. 

Balinor nods slowly. “Protect it with your life and it'll repay you a thousand fold.”

With those words he disappears into thin air, leaving Arthur to nurse a big dragon egg.

**** 

Merlin moves. And groans. Everything aches, his muscles, his bones from the big ones to the small ones. He can breathe though and he's in one piece. 

This means he has to act.

He's barely pushed himself onto his knees, when the mortar shelter he crouched under is ripped off. 

Borden has come close and his eyes are swirling, his hand extended outward. Another spell hits Merlin, setting him rolling backwards head over heels. Then following the first one another wave of power lashes him, making true pain spread through Merlin's body like wild fire.

He can't move, his thoughts mist and he can't pick a single one of them up to plan ahead and counter Borden's moves. His body weighs him down and his instinct is to follow it into the darkness that beckons. He's closing his eyes, lids heavy, when he hears Gaius and Alice call for him, panic in their voices.

It's the fear in their tones that makes him open his eyes, just so he can reassure them he's more or less okay.

Weakened by the attack, Merlin stumbles upright, dizzy, but alive. Acute pain stabs him in the ribs where Borden's volley touched him. But he still needs to make sure Gaius and Alice know everything's all right, that they haven't lost him yet.

But Borden sights him before he can and throws a dark burst of magic at him. Merlin tries to duck, but it's too late and he's caught by the stream of magic. He's waiting for the pain to ratchet up, for the killing stroke. But however much it hurts, his body is weathering the attack. 

That's when he gets at the truth of it. Borden is throwing clumps of unformed magic at him. Having been too short a time on earth Borden has never honed his magical skills before. Merlin's body is absorbing the attack more easily than he would have been able to were Borden proficient at magic. If he could just find the strands of Borden's magic, Merlin could use them and reverse them. A small twinge of pain strikes him, but Merlin welcomes it, uses it.

He hurls it back at Borden, fuelling Borden's power with his own until it's growing and growing. It's a barely controlled rush. The force of it smashes into Borden's face, making his head jerk back. 

From the corner of his eyes he can see that Enmyria is bracing herself for Merlin's counter-attack to hit her too, so Merlin extends the reach of his magic to her. 

The magic slams into Enmyria's chest, lifting her off her feet, suspending her mid air. Her eyes widen in shock and a note of feral anger. Merlin doesn't care. He needs his enemies to go away. So he does the only thing that will get him that result. He wishes them gone and channels that wish into his magic, making of it a mantra.

He closes his eyes and puts all his energy into diluting his desire into the magic. When he reopens them, Enmyria, Alvarr and Borden are gone.

Gaius and Alice rush over to him. Gaius hugs him, repeating the words, “My boy,” over and over. 

Alice wrings her hands and asks, “Did you kill them?”

Still with an armful of Gaius, Merlin sniffs and says, “No, unfortunately I think I just sent them for a magical spin somewhere.”

“Oh.” Alice's shoulders slump. Her eyes hollow out.

Merlin reaches out for her and pulls her in a hug as strong as the one he's giving Gaius. “I'll protect you, I swear.”

 

**** 

 

Arthur leaves the car on the road's shoulder and crosses it to where the road block is in place. 

Uther salutes him as though Arthur's in the military too. “Son.”

Arthur shifts the crate in his hands an nods briskly at his father as he's learnt to do from time immemorial. “I need you to keep this safe.”

Uther studies the crate and its contents. There's a sceptical aura about him, which Arthur understands. If he hadn't lived this, he isn't sure he would believe that a seemingly stone-like spherical object is key to humanity's better future. “And if I do, the second ultimatum will be dropped?”

“No,” Arthur says, thinking over the transmission Borden made sure the entire world listened to. “But it will keep the enemy from getting what he wants.”

“And isn't that the other alien?”

“No,” Arthur says, arms tightening around the crate. “Merlin is of no real importance to Borden. What Borden wants is Earth and the dragon egg.”

“But if we give it to him,” Uther starts, getting all crafty in the name of the mission. “He might back down. I talked with Six and they think—”

Arthur scoffs. “I'm sorry but Six is not equipped to deal with this at all.” Aliens aren't terrorists, for god's sake. Arthur's father is naïve even thinking so. “This is not your run of the mill threat, believe me.”

“So you,” Father says, compressing his mouth, “believe you're more suited to dealing with this than people who've made national security their day job.” Father stops, bites his lower lip, then says what he wants to say all the same. “Unlike you, might I add...”

Arthur is rather tired of discussing this particular subject for the umpteenth time. “Me choosing to become a journalist has no bearing on this.”

Uther's face pinches up into crooked lines. “It has everything to do with this. You're making suggestions regarding national security while you have no grounds to go on.”

“Well,” says Arthur stepping into his father's face, “journalism has given me Merlin and that's more than I could ever have asked for.” Father doesn't seem to think that's a positive if the way his face contorts is anything to go by. “And put me in the position to be better informed than you.”

Father laughs. “And what are you going to do with this information?”

Arthur sighs at Father's lack of understanding, and says, “I'm going to save the world.” He waits a few moments so the message can sink in and then adds, “Are you going to help me with this or not?”

“I'll help because the threat is of an unusual nature.”

Arthur studies his father close. It wouldn't be the first time Uther Pendragon promises something only to do the exact opposite because he believes his way is better. But this time Arthur thinks his Father may mean it. “Here,” he says, extending the crate to him. “Guard it closely.”

“I will assign my best men to its protection,” Uther says proudly. “No silly alien will be able to take it.”

“They're not silly aliens,” Arthur says, massaging his temple. “You did see them blow up the Big Ben?”

“Stupid tricks,” Father counters. “Nothing more.”

Arthur really needs to acquaint his father with the new status quo. “It's not stupid tricks. It's unbounded power that goes as deep as the earth.”

Father's mouth curls into a sneer. “And how do you know that? Those little displays of force were meant to make us think the invading force more powerful than it is.”

Arthur chooses to address only the more relevant part of Father’s pronouncement. “I know that because of Merlin.”

The lines around Father's eyes crease more deeply, severely. “This Merlin's name falls from your lips often enough.”

“Get used to it,” Arthur says, turning around to go.

“Arthur, what is he to you?”

Arthur stops in his tracks. “If we all survive, you'll find out soon enough.”

Gravel crunching under his feet, he makes it to his car, not looking to his father. With the radio on for news, and his attention more on it than on the road, he drives slowly. The news, thankfully enough, doesn't report any new reprisal from Borden, not after his second attack. Lighter of heart, he lets himself enjoy the drive that will take him back to Merlin.

When Arthur weaves the car up the slope leading to his getaway cottage he sees Merlin on the threshold waiting for him. He's out of the car the moment's the engine is killed and hurrying up to Merlin the next.

They stand there facing each other, neither one of them knowing whether to move until eventually Merlin reaches out and grabs him, holding him close against him. Merlin's hug is tight, strong, his fingers digging deep at his shoulder and waist. Before Merlin releases him, Arthur feels him tremble. As he backs up a step he says, “So you made it back.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, wanting to walk back into Merlin's arms but knowing he's got to deliver his news first. “And Father is going to collaborate.”

“Good,” Merlin says with a nod.

They re-deploy inside so that Arthur can tell Merlin the rest of the news and because he means to kiss him silly when he's done with that. But first things first. “There's no news of further attacks by Borden.”

Merlin perches on the arm of the chair. “That means nothing.”

Arthur joins him by it, takes his hands in his. “I know that doesn't mean he's giving up on his plans for—” Arthur's lips twitch “—world domination, but this gives us time.”

Merlin's lips quirk down at the corners. “Eh.”

Arthur squeezes his hands. “What's wrong with me being hopeful?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says, pulling him closer and burying his head against his chest. “It's just that the only advantage I had was Borden's magic being new to him. If he learns the ins and outs of it, then I have none.” 

“You still know how to use magic better than him,” Arthur reminds Merlin. He doesn't want him to go into this bearing a defeatist attitude. 

“But he's got his two partners in crime and I'm alone.”

Arthur kisses the top of Merlin's head, inhaling the scent of his herbal shampoo. “You're not,” he says, clutching him tight to him. “I promise you that.”

Merlin's fingers curl around his jumper. “Thank you, but—” Merlin trails off but Arthur can guess at what he wants to say. 

“I know I have no powers, unlike you,” Arthur starts, airing thoughts he's not sure Merlin, living on his magic as he does, can understand. “But I do need to defend my home.”

“It's mine too,” Merlin says grimly, mouth thinning, quivering.

Moved by the vehemence in that, Arthur takes Merlin's lips with his, stroking them with his tongue, then dipping it inside for a slow taste of him. They cling to each other desperately, Merlin's hand pulling him further in to him, Arthur's travelling up his neck and into his hair. After the kiss has slowed and their lips parted Arthur says, “I know that. I haven't said this before but you're more human and brave than most of us.”

Merlin wets his lips. “I just want to protect what's mine.”

“I'm afraid,” Arthur says, casting suspicious looks at the radio, “that you will soon have to.”

 

***** 

 

Borden tears a hole in the sky and a rain of ice falls; an elemental charge is released that Merlin feels deep in his bones. An eddy forms that beats a storm all the way up to the clouds and sucks in parts of buildings and masonry, bricks, mortar, dust. 

The dome of St Paul is sucked in. And that's the way the Millennium Bridge goes.

The Thames surges. A line of blue fire shoots to earth and strikes down buildings and trees. Streets are aflame. Merlin can see licks of it try to reach for the sky. The wind takes them and spreads them around. Merlin wishes he could save those at ground level but for now he has another priority.

Merlin knows what he must do. He needs to work his way up this ladder, not look down by any means, and reach Borden. Once he's stopped him he can think about saving people and tracing down Borden's two companions so that the carnage can stop, forever. But for now up he goes.

Sweat pours from his scalp. His grip on the ladder is a death one, with both hands around the rungs. If he slips, he'll fall a dreadfully long way, no survival possible. So, yeah, no looking. Gritting his teeth, he scales the ladder, one foot in front of the other. 

He's halfway to the top when the situation worsens. Rain starts falling sideways in great, lashing sheets, dense enough to obscure the horizon and fog up the windows of the high-rise Merlin is climbing the side of. It's so dense, Merlin has to close his eyes against it and proceed blind. 

Drumming thunder deafens him and a banshee wind buffets him about. Merlin's cursing Borden's control of the elements when the lashing of the storm intensifies. The rungs become slippery and his hands go numb with cold.

His foot slips, one of his hands fails to maintain its grip and he finds himself hanging by a hand, suspended at six hundred feet from the ground. The hand that's still clinging to the rung starts cramping and that's when true fear bites at Merlin's heels. If he lets go... Horrid images present themselves to his brain, broken limbs, cerebral matter, yeah not nice.

Trying to reach for the rung with his dangling hand he grunts. Nothing. Panic flares inside him. His fingers are letting go of his tenuous grip of the ladder. He flails to grab it. Then his magic kicks in almost instinctively, warming his fingers and forming a cocoon around him. 

Thanks to the better conditions, Merlin can pull himself fully back on to the ladder. No longer blinded by the ferocity of the rain pelting his face he places one foot on a rung of the ladder and the other foot on the next.

This way he makes it to the roof. 

Borden is there, using his magic to destroy the city and kill at random. His latest blast tears roofs off and makes walls crumble. A blink and the streets around the building on whose top they're on crack along all their length. The road surface splits at the seams and deep pits form either side of the fracture line. Flames rise up, stretching ahead for miles. All around people are dying. Merlin can hear their screams.

“You need to stop,” Merlin roars at Borden the moment he's safe on the roof.

Borden doesn't stop channelling his magic but he does turn around to address Merlin. “You know I won't. I'm getting what I want; this planet.”

Merlin can't fault Borden's logic. But Borden certainly will have another thing coming if he thinks Merlin will stay a witness to this. “I will stop you.”

“You couldn't the last time,” Borden says with a sneer. “I'm getting better at this magic lark. Now you can't stop me anymore.”

“You know it's Earth that's giving us the magic,” Merlin says, revealing a fact he knows out of instinct more than testing. “If you hurt it, it'll turn against you.”

“It hasn't so far,” says Borden, revelling in the amount of destruction he's wreaking. “Not in the least.”

Merlin attacks him with his magic. He hurls it at Borden, from his outspread palms. 

Borden screams as the magic connects with him, but he's quick enough to raise a shield and start a counter attack. 

Borden's blast punches Merlin in his stomach and then envelops him whole. Merlin flies head over heels from the magical blow, cursing as he tumbles backwards, hitting his head against a concrete stanchion, till he's almost an inch away from the parapet. Another such powerful blow and Merlin's off the roof. 

Fortunately, Borden doesn't redouble his efforts against Merlin, but rather points a hand upwards, using his powers to interfere with the elements. His eyes glow intensely and the hole in the sky widens. Borden's directing hand causes the sun to veer off its designated path.

Merlin knows that if he lets Borden complete this action they're all done. “Stop,” he yells. “If you do, there'll be nothing of this planet left for you to inhabit.”

Merlin's appeal falls on deaf ears. Borden's laughs. “You're just afraid of what I can do. What I can take!”

The circle of light forming a halo around Borden's hand expands and the earth rumbles, as if it's about to tilt off its axis.

“Hell, no,” Merlin says. This planet has sheltered him for as long as he's lived. He's not about to let anyone destroy it. Using Borden's distraction, his preoccupation with the elements rather than Merlin, he connects with his magic. This time he seeks its roots, the way this planet feeds it. He doesn't channel it forward but waits for it to grow inside him till he can push it all outwards.

When the magic takes him over, his whole body shimmering as if fairy dust is coating it, he lets it all out with a long savage growl.

Merlin's magic comes at Borden's, hampering its progress, putting the sun back where it belongs. Merlin feels it being sucked at by the earth, so it can realign the planet back on its orbit. 

At this point, Borden notices Merlin's interfering with his magic. No longer able to control the earth destructing flair of magic he unleashed, Borden directs his powers against Merlin.

This time the blast is levelled at him with greater precision. It spins from one of Borden's hands, while a shield is thrown from his other—a heavy, weighted blow that crashes into Merlin and almost flattens him to the ground.

Gritting his teeth against the power of the magic trying to destroy him, Merlin focuses instead on breaking Borden's shield. Borden's magic is wreaking havoc with his body though, breaking his concentration, ploughing at his bones, scrambling at his insides, causing a white hot something to curl against them and choke them.

Merlin might not be able to dodge Borden's fire, but at least he's burning his hand, the one holding the shield, with volleys of his own. He wants to continue going at it, sap his defences, but all he can do at the present moment is push him backwards and backwards with his mind.

When Borden realises he's slowly being shoved back, he ejects another pulse of magic.

Merlin screams with the fire that envelopes him. It's bright and blinding, pure light. He can't, he can't, he can't bear it.

And then a voice sounds clear in his ears, soothing as the lashings of Borden's magic aren't. “My son,” it says, and Merlin latches on to it for he recognises it. “Dad,” he gasps, beyond the pain, beyond the senselessness of it.

“It's time to for you to become a dragonlord.”

The words might be vague and odd but Merlin understands them. He finds the link between himself and his roots. It's like a vibrating thin red line hidden in the very tissue of his being. He tugs at it and it resonates a thousand fold. 

“Aithusa,” he calls, no, roars, expecting his dragon to do his bidding.

He feels it when the egg cracks, when the wings spread, when Aithusa, the spawn of magic and light, flies for the first time.

In a language Merlin didn't even know he had before using it, he summons her to him. And when she flies overhead, Merlin smiles even though his body is about to succumb to Borden's magical torture. 

Aithusa circles over him, coos at him. And then, Merlin orders her to protect him, defend Earth.

Aithusa doesn't hesitate. She veers around and looms over Borden.

“You summoned the last dragon,” Borden shouts, his magic faltering, his eyes wide with awe and fear.

Merlin feels Borden's magic release him from its burning coils, and though he still burns, and can barely stand, he uses all of his magic to attack Borden's shield. The roar that comes out of him is powerful and primal. It shatters the power of Borden's magic, sends him hurtling back across the roof. 

Arms windmilling, Borden's tumbles backwards, when Aithusa opens her snout and breathes fire on him.

Borden goes up in flames.

 

***** 

 

Enmyria and Alvarr advance on the line of tanks. Arms outstretched they blast away the soldiers belonging to Father's regiment. They send heavy, armoured combat vehicles flying in their wake, disrupting Father's defence line.

Ducking behind a barricade, Arthur draws breath. The gunfire never ceases but it doesn't stop the aliens at all. They continue to unleash their magic at the defending units. When one of those blasts comes close to hitting him, Arthur flattens himself against the ground.

“Take this,” one of his father's men – Owain, if Arthur's not mistaken – tells him.

Arthur drops his camera and grabs the gun. “I—”

“It's ready to shoot.”

Arthur doesn't know what good it will do. Father's unit is falling back, Alvarr and Enmyria's magic leaving several corpses in the gutter. 

“We need to penetrate that magic shield,” Father shouts from behind the carapace of an upturned tank. “Who's with me?” Without waiting for an answer he leaps into the fray.

His unit springs in formation after him, standing in front of the principal barricade. They fire at Alvarr and Enmyria, the bullets ricocheting off the magical shield of the two.

Owain, too, abandons Arthur, leaping over the metalworks constituting the bulwark Arthur's hiding behind. 

A dozen more men rise and fire ragged volleys at Alvarr and Enmyria. The soldiers crouched behind the other defences take part in the combat too, heeding Uther's rallying call. Two or three fall and stay still. 

Still in a kneeling position and not wanting to sit there waiting for another magic assault behind the barricade, Arthur quickly pushes up on his feet, relinquishing the security of his shelter, and triggers a series of shots aimed at Alvarr and Enmyria's shield. 

He may not be a soldier and he may not be the best shot, but he will protect Earth and he will help his father, who's leading his men against a foe they can't contain.

With a scoop of his hand, Enmyria levitates the bulwarks protecting the lower part of Arthur's body. Her eyes glow, a fierce red Arthur's never seen before. He guesses she's about to kill him. Arthur empties his chamber at her, but to no avail. She stands while her magic protects her, laughing in his face.

To help him Father turns his automatic on their common enemies, screaming, “Arthur.”

Arthur's fired his last bullet, he's counted, when he hears the other soldiers scream, “The Dragon, it's back. It's coming back.”

“Yes,” Owain shouts, aiming his automatic at the young dragon. “But is it with us or with them?”

Seeing Owain keeping Merlin's dragon in his sights, Arthur sprints forwards, crossing the line of fire and waving his arms. “It's our friend. Don't shoot. The Dragon's our friend.”

Arthur's waving must have made him more of a target to the aliens, for the ground opens just beside him like a crater, and tarmac projectiles slice at the skin of his neck, of his face, of the arms he throws up in self defence. Fully expecting the next attack will cost him his life, Arthur goes cold all over. 

But when he peers from between the cradle of his arms he sees the white dragon spreading protective wings over him. Then it spits out a wall of flames that destroys the magic shield Alvarr and Enmyria created and burns the two to the marrow.

 

**** 

 

Aithusa perches on the fence, her white wings spread out, her head craned to the side, rolling swathes of green countryside the backdrop to her preening.

When Merlin crinkles his eyes at her and tells her, “You're a beauty, aren't you?” she makes little pleased noises. 

Merlin sighs, massages his upper thighs. His shoulders sag.

The hand that lands on his left one causes him to start. “Arthur!” he says, tipping his head up to look at him.

Arthur hands him a mug of tea and sits in the other tree stump seat. Sunglasses on, he looks to the distance. “Is something wrong?”

Merlin takes a sip of the tea Arthur made. There's a touch too much honey in it, but it's not bad. “No.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, cautionary. “I can tell.”

“It's just...” Not sure he can put it into words, he tails off.

“What?” Arthur coaxes, his eyes still trained long range. “You can tell me, I think.”

“Aithusa,” Merlin says, observing her as she basks in the spring sun. “She loves it here. But how long will she be welcome? How long before she becomes bigger and scarier and people forget what she's done for our planet?”

Arthur stretches his legs out and takes his hand. “You forget about the power of the press.”

Dipping his head, Merlin chuckles. “I'm not forgetting your Pulitzer prize winning prowess.”

“Well a direct account from the battle lines will get you some attention,” Arthur says, faux modestly.

“But I'm still wary,” Merlin says, unable to define how but wanting Arthur to understand. Aithusa hops off the fence and starts pursuing a squirrel. “I'm afraid for her... for...”

“Yourself,” Arthur says, increasing the pressure of his hand in his. “You think they'll reject you and Aithusa as aliens?”

Merlin nods, hums, shifts in his seat. “In a way, yeah.” He pauses, takes a big breath then goes on. “Because I am. I mean, Borden was on a power trip but he was the last of my race and...”

“You're sorry he's gone?” There's a note of surprise tinting Arthur's tone.

“No.” Merlin starts up and walks to the fence, leaning against it, his fingers curling around the rough wood. “Maybe... what's sure is that people will keep comparing me to him, suspecting I'll go as crazy as him.”

Arthur rejoins him by the fence, loops an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into him. “They won't think that because they all know what a hero you are.”

Merlin half blushes, half tenses.

“And,” Arthur adds, “because nobody knows your real identity. Your face yeah, your identity... no.”

“Your editor does...” Merlin can't ever forget that.

“And he's a gentleman who will keep your secret,” Arthur tells him, planting his nose against Merlin's neck and nuzzling. “And as for me you know I'll keep your identity secret, whatever it takes.”

“I know that.” The notion warms him more than it should; it sends little thrills that grow and feed that larger than life feeling Merlin feels for Arthur. “I know that.”

“So you also know that the world is yours for the taking.”

Thinking how literal Borden was about that and how much his background was similar to Merlin's, Merlin laughs. There's certainly some kind of humour in that. “Yeah, in a way.”

“So what do you want to do from now on?” Arthur asks, looking deeply into his eyes, his expression sweet and hopeful.

“I want to raise Aithusa,” Merlin says, briefly glancing her way. He gathers more steam as he thinks of things he wants to do, might be entirely free to do as long as Arthur keeps his alien identity secret. “I want to study, go to uni.”

Arthur purrs in approval, though his muscles coil a little.

“You,” Merlin adds immediately after. “I want you.”

Arthur's muscles relax. He breathes out, “Yeah, what part of my do you want?”

“All of you.”

Arthur's lips stretch against his skin. “That can be arranged.”

“But right now,” Merlin says, humming soft and low in his throat. “I want to kiss you.”

Drawing back a little Arthur goes funnily cross-eyed. “And what's stopping you?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says, putting a big kiss on Arthur's mouth, one that deepens and deepens and...

 

The End


End file.
